Written in Blood
by teenageroadkill
Summary: The heart cannot be involved. Emotionally there can be nothing there. But what happens when Hoffman can't learn to completely detach himself from his emotions, especially concerning Amanda? AMANDA/HOFFMAN fanfic about love, lust, and betrayal.
1. Prologue

**This is an Amanda/Hoffman centered fanfic. It will involve them in a romantic and sexual way, so you were warned. It will also include others from Saw, especially Eric Matthews, Kerry, John, Art Blanc, and other characters from the Saw series.**

**Expect spoilers for all of the movies, and if you have not seen them, especially IV and V, expect to be confused.**

**And of course, this is still _Saw, _so expect blood. I'll give warnings before every chapter if their will be explicit sexual or violent scenes. And on that note, this chapter will involve a little of both…PG-13. Expect more explicit stuff later. So if that bothers you, maybe you should find something else to read. And oh yeah, I don't own Saw or any part of it, but if anyone knows how I can get the rights to Costas Mandylor, please let me know! ;) Anyway, enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated.**

**Written in Blood**

**Prologue**

Detective Eric Matthews slammed his fist on the table, cursing and crying simultaneously. Two drinks shook as the force vibrated through the table. The files stacked on the desk nearly toppled over. He had never been one to withdrawal his rage, or deal with situations in which every available course of action led to the same undesirable result. The only thing that kept him from lifting something up and throwing it across the room was the presence of Mark Hoffman.

"Relax, Eric," he said in a quiet voice that sharply contrasted with Eric's roaring. He lowered his eyes and leaned in close to him. "Tell me more about what happened."

Eric's eyes stung with tears.

"They know, Mark. Somehow they know…someone must have snitched. Someone on the inside maybe. I don't know. All I know is, Internal Affairs is taking some goddamn drug addict's testimony over mine. Can you imagine that? I'm a _cop_! And he's a fucking junkie!"

He covered his face with his hands, rubbing the tears out of his eyes and trying to hold it together. Not for pride's sake, but for the fact that if he didn't, if he continued with this feeling gnawing at him, he might just grab the first thing in sight and tear it to pieces. This wasn't his house, so he didn't have that option.

Mark hesitated with his next words, careful not to say something to bring him over the edge. Over the years, he attained quite a bit of practice in managing Eric's anger, but he knew this might be too much for even him.

"Do they have any physical evidence?" Mark asked. He wanted to deviate the conversation towards anything that might help him see a solution or at least calm his friend down. He also wanted to know how far this case against Eric had developed.

"What? No. At least, I don't think so," Eric said. His voice suddenly changed. The anger mitigated, replaced by anxiety. He was trapped in a whirlwind of emotions.

"What do you mean, 'You don't think so?' What aren't you telling me Eric?" Mark asked.

"It maybe more than just suspicion, Mark. I think they might have computer records of evidence that was added much later in a case…some of the dates were mixed up."

Now Mark was the one that needed to be calmed down. He jumped up with such vigor that he knocked his chair back, and then he grabbed Eric by his shirt, his anger making him loose all discretion.

"How many times, how many fucking times have I told you to be careful?"

"I know!" Eric screamed back. Mark's reaction infuriated him, but at the same time, he felt shock. Mark could get angry on the surface, but he never had such emotion in his eyes before. Mark was the calm one, the peaceful one, the one who kept everyone else in the department sane when they were dealing with some of the vilest people in the city. Mark was the mediator between cops in disputes with each other. He provided rational for Eric when had none. He saved him from taking his state issued gun and putting it in his mouth and pulling the trigger or sticking his weapon in some child molester's face and blowing his brains out. Eric knew that if Mark wasn't there, if he wasn't Eric's conscience, he would have snapped long ago.

Eric stood there stunned. Mark had never been like this before. Not this angry, not all the way down to his core. Not except for that one time…

And then Eric knew exactly what Mark was thinking behind those quivering, livid eyes.

_Angelina._

Almost as quickly as it had happened, Mark released his shirt and backed off. He rubbed his eyes as exhaustion and frustration seeped in to his consciousness. He walked back to his chair and sat. Eric sighed as the tension in the room seemed to be coming down from its pinnacle. In a calm voice he vocalized what they were both thinking.

"They are going to review all my cases now. Every one. Every junkie, dealer, rapist, murderer I put away. Trying to see if I planted evidence on them too. Trying to see if they can give them a get-out-of-jail-free-pass."

"All of them," Mark murmured.

"Yes, all of them. I know what you're thinking. Just stop it, Mark. Don't torture yourself and spend the next couple weeks with more sleepless nights. There's no way they'd let a scumbag like Seth Baxter out."

Even as Eric spoke this he knew he was purely speculating. All their years working for the law had taught them how unpredictable it could be, but Mark's solemn expression made Eric feel compelled to say something, even if he knew every word coming out of his mouth was bullshit.

"Think about it, Mark. Prior convictions, history of violent behavior- not to mention he killed a detective's sister-"

"All the more reason why they will look into it and try to get him out. You had motive because you're my friend and you were on the case. You had motive and means, and you know as well as I do that now any halfway decent defense attorney could get him released on a technicality, on account of your fuck up!"

"It wasn't my idea, Mark! You're the once that came up to me and begged for my help, put the idea in my head that if only there was more than circumstantial evidence, that we could nail him. Don't tell me you didn't know what would happen, what I would do."

Eric had him there. Mark knew exactly what he was insinuating Eric should do when he told him that if only they had something physical, some irrefutable piece of evidence, that they could ensure his conviction. He'd dropped subtle hints, did what he could to manipulate Eric's feelings to get him to do whatever it took to put his sister's murderer away.

The only thing he hadn't expected was that once Eric started, he wouldn't be able to stop.

And now it had come back to them. Five years later, but it had come back to them.


	2. Some Rules are Meant to be Broken

**Timeline: Before the Saw series begins**

**Rating: Pg-13 for mild sexual content**

**Chapter 1 **

**Some Rules are Meant to be Broken**

**"The heart cannot be involved. Emotionally here can be nothing there." –Jigsaw**

Mark twisted the doorknob twice to ensure it was locked. He approached the small table but remained standing behind the chair. He didn't feel comfortable sitting behind his desk, as if he had done nothing wrong. It should have been the most familiar feeling in the world, but the idea of normality after what had just transpired seemed so strange now.

"I shouldn't have let you take the fall," Mark said. He looked over at his bookcase, staring at the awards, the ribbons for public service, the pictures of him and his sister that reminded him of all he had achieved and generating more conflicting feelings caused by his poor moral decisions. He thought about what he had done, abandoning Eric and leaving him to be torn apart by their superiors and Internal Affairs. He thought about a hypothetical situation, confessing the truth and relieving Eric some of the blame. But if Eric faced possible expulsion from the department, then Mark would definitely be expelled for is part in it.

"Mark, there was nothing more you could have done," Eric said, surprising himself with his own placidity.

"I know," he said.

Eric leaned over and peered through the blinds for a moment. His eyes scanned past several of officers, lingering on Kerry especially. She seemed disinterested in the conversation, and with a polite smile, gestured to the door to excuse herself. Rigg said something to her that caused her to send him a spiteful glare. Eric wondered what the hell that was about.

"Office drama. It's been going on since this whole incident began," Mark said in response to the expression on Eric's face. "Situations like this make you realize who really has your back."

"Who has my back?" Eric asked.

"Me. Kerry. Rigg…sometimes."

"What do you mean _sometimes_?"

"I'm not sure about Rigg," he admitted. "But Kerry, she'd do anything for you. She'd break all kinds of regulations to help you."

"She'd lie for me?"

Mark nodded his head.

Eric peaked out of the curtains on last time, and caught a glimpse of her walking out the door. She turned back and seemed to stare right at him, although he was concealed by the blinds. Then she turned around again and left.

"I don't want her to. I don't want her to get involved," Eric said, turning his head to face Mark.

"She's already involved."

"I know what you are trying to do. You are trying to keep me from losing my badge out of some kind of misplaced guilt you have over what happened with Seth."

"It was the first case that you planted evidence," Mark said.

"You didn't force me to do anything."

"I made suggestions. I put the evidence you needed right in your hand. I made it easy."

"But I'm the one that did it, Mark."

"That's just a detail. It's a question of morality. If you put a gun in someone's hand and they pull the trigger, does that make you a murderer? An accomplice?"

"What does the law say?" Eric said.

"I know what it says. And I know what it should say," Mark sighed, obviously filled with guilt.

"Don't you fucking crack. At this point, it wouldn't help anyone. It would make us both look bad for lying. Let it go. Stop feeling guilty. You've been punished enough already."

"You know why I called you here?"

"Yeah," he said. "About Kerry wanting to help, even though you know I'm going to say no. That and…well…" he said, nodding to the newspaper on the table.

Mark sifted through the papers on his desk, and looked at the newspaper headline that he had read over and over again since he first grabbed it at the gas station and stormed out, slamming money on the counter and taking it with him to read in the car, where he could break down and cry if he needed to. Which he did, collapsing on the steering wheel and sobbing out all of the anger and tension that had been he had fostered for weeks.

_Conspiracy to convict Murderer grants him release on a technicality_

The article had been a stab at both of them. The author's writing had been quite a two-sided piece, first expressing sympathy for the detective and his sister, then a judgmental tone took over, and the rest of the article proceeded to deprecate him and Eric and describe corruption within their criminal investigation department, with a conclusion expressing optimism at the prospect of Eric Matthew's dismissal from the police force after 12 years of service.

In Mark's opinion, Pamela Jenkins was quite a ruthless bitch. And she knew how to turn a flame into a conflagration. The situation had been kept fairly underground by the media, perhaps because they had cooperated with his department in the past, but once she sunk her claws into the story, Eric's reputation was at her mercy, and her article stomped all over it.

Mark saw Eric look at the newspaper and then look up at him. Mark took the paper and tossed it in the trash, symbolic of what he wanted to do with the topic at hand.

"You're not here to talk about that. That's over."

"Don't tell me you are just going to let him walk away," Eric said, putting his hands on the table and leaning closer to Hoffman, staring at him in disbelief.

"What else can I do?"

A silence interrupted their conversation, and at last, Eric saw no way to continue the conversation. Mark was right of course. But the injustice of the situation made him desperate to see a solution that wasn't there.

"We'll think of something," he said.

Mark nodded his head, more to show that he was listening than he agreed. His mind wandered from the conversation for a moment, his gaze focused again at his bookcase and the picture of Angelina.

Eric stood up and prepared to leave.

"If we're going to be miserable, we might as well be miserable together. Get your jacket," he said as he opened the door.

"You're joking, right? _Euphoria_?" Mark asked as they drove by the building with flashing lights and blaring music. Eric grinned, his face an expression of amusement so rarely seen recently. The contagious smile infected Hoffman as well. He smirked and shook his head, his rebuff defeated.

Mark stepped out of the car and glanced around, taking in his surroundings, a nervous practice he grew accustomed to in his training, an annoying habit he never learned to let go, even in non-threatening situations. In this instance though, he thought it may prove to be useful. The area itself wasn't shady, but there was a vibe he picked up, an intuition he'd developed over time that made him clutch his gun as he got out of the car.

His eyes shifted, but he remained faced towards the building. Using his peripheral vision, he scanned the place. He thought he saw movement in the bushes near a patch of woods, a perfect hiding spot. He spun around and his grip on the gun tightened, but there was nothing there. He quickly put the gun away before Eric got out.

Eric slammed the car door shut. Mark flinched.

"Jumpy?" he asked. Mark waved his hand as if to toss the issue aside. Pride prevented him from mentioning he sometimes thought of Seth coming to his apartment to get revenge, that he couldn't sleep some nights because the slightest noise made him bolt out of bed and go into defense mode. Mark wasn't as apprehensive to reach for his gun lately.

The inside of _Euphoria_ was unexpected. The bright neon lights that sprayed upon the street did not prepare him for the utter dimness of the inside. The men inside were like bats fleeing from the day, retreating to their cave. The girls that walked around in their skimpy clothes were either wearing glow-in-the-dark tops, or had flashing bracelets that reminded him of the reflection lights people put on their bikes.

The bartender smiled at them when they sat down, an older woman with poorly dyed hair, an obvious attempt to cover the gray strains that were beginning to invade. And with her makeup distastefully caked on, it was no surprise she stood behind the bar serving drinks instead of on the stage performing.

"Two drinks. Anything," Eric said, his attention fixed on the women that passed by them, most of the working ones smiling, the ones on their breaks looking tired or pissed off. For awhile Eric and Mark were quiet, just drinking and listening to the music that varied from techno to rock to hip hop, and taking in the sights. After a few drinks they started talking, and suddenly Eric nudged Mark, who was lost in his thoughts again.

"She's cute," Eric said, looking at a young ditzy girl in a miniskirt and halter-top, looking like she just walked out of a rap music video. She had a huge grin on her face while she sat in some guy's lap, toying with her hair, soaking up the attention like a deprived little girl seeking Daddy's approval.

_Which she really is_, Mark thought. Eric's comment automatically repulsed him. She had to be nineteen at most, with what appeared the mentality of a pre-pubescent adolescent. A misguided, naïve kid.

Mark blamed it on Eric's drunkenness and hoped he'd turn his attention to some of the older women. He didn't want to think about Eric, or anyone, touching that young girl, who kind of reminded him of-

_Stop it,_ he thought. _Not here. Not now._

"She's cute too," Eric said. Mark sighed in relief. Eric wasn't even paying attention to who he was referring to. His slur indicated it was just the alcohol talking. Still Mark played along, and looked for the girl Eric had pointed out.

Now she was more Mark's taste. Her long dark hair and crimson lipstick made her stand out from the others. Red appeared to be her signature color, and she wore it well. Mark could see why Eric's attention had quickly shifted. She carried herself with pride, more self-aware than the bubbly girls who were flaunting themselves without any real understanding of their bodies.

No, she was a woman who knew exactly what she was capable of. He sensed defiance within her, more potent when they locked eyes. She kept walking towards the stage, and passed by the bar, her gaze fixed on them the entire time, as though they had some kind of history together, some encounter he had forgotten.

The woman stopped right before she reached the side entrance and bent over, under the pretense of fixing the strap on her high heels. The enticing view succeeded in grabbing their attention. She stood up again, and went on the stage. The lights immediately darkened, and new music played from the speakers, a soft, slow techno song that she knew how to move to, from both practice and her own natural grace.

Mark slid out of his seat and walked over to the stage. He sat in the front, but to the side, his actions discreet as to not draw attention to himself. He looked around for a moment; no one he recognized except for Eric that came stumbling after him. Mark relaxed, and allowed himself to enjoy seeing her flexing her body and radiating sensuality. His mind wandered again, this time with her, imagining all the things he wanted to do to her in the privacy of his own apartment.

Her dance began slow, her arms outstretched and positioned vertically, clinging to the pole as she slid down, her thighs really feeling the pressure as she concentrated on maintaining a slow pace. Finally her knees touched the floor and she went with it, lowering herself further, pressing her abdomen on the floor and as she did so, kicking her legs up and tossing her hair to the side simultaneously. She spread her legs, a perfect view for Mark. Whether it was intentional or not, he was undecided, but the idea captivated him. The thought that she was…_flirting_ with him, not so subtly, intrigued him. He couldn't wait for her start stripping; he was already undressing her in his mind.

As she got up off the floor, straddling the pole and twirling on it a few times, she tossed her head back, the strands of dark hair crashing down her shoulders and back, instantly volumized and unkempt. She did several head flips and spins, stretching and caressing herself, and less of the gymnastics. She reasoned that should be left to the women who have to impress with their tricks because they lack in other areas.

Near the end of the song, once the tempo began to slow, she layed on her back and opened her legs, stretched them apart as far as she could go, the outer parts of her thighs nearly touching the floor. With practice and flexibility she mastered what she liked to call the "scissor move", although she had no idea what it was actually called in the erotic dancing world. She invented her own names for the moves she had seen other girls doing either on TV or in other clubs she'd worked in; she'd observe and then make the move her own. She'd never had formal lessons, but the men never noticed that; she presented herself well and her looks brought in the cash.

The song ended and she snuck off stage. The ditzy girl they had seen earlier wearing a bubblegum pink two piece was already tearing her top off as soon as she got on. No anticipation at all, no mystery. Eric continued to be captivated by the performance on stage, and Mark stood up and looked for the girl in red. The fact she'd never removed her clothes disappointed him. He found her talking to one of the bartenders about something and she looked worried. Mark only caught a part of the conversation.

"Another hang up call? He didn't say anything?"

"He asked for you," the bartender said, "but I told him you were busy. He said he'd call back later."

The bartender looked past her shoulder and saw Mark standing idly nearby, looking towards them. She caught him spying red-handed, and tried to suppress a smile but failed.

"I think someone is a little intrigued from your last performance," the bartender whispered to her.

"Interested in a private showing?" she asked Mark, completely comfortable with offering herself up like a mixed drink from the bar.

Mark looked her over as though considering it for the first time, but they both knew it was a charade. He'd made up his mind to get as intimate as possible with her as soon as she got on that stage. He tried to remain casual. He agreed he wanted a private showing with a nod of his head. He received a slight smile in exchange for the cash he gave her. He followed her, his eyes trailing her curves the entire time.

"What's your name?" he asked her once they were in the private suite. He sat on the couch and leaned back, acclimating himself.

"Isn't it more fun to not know?" she asked, letting one of the straps on her top fall.

"I'm Mark," he said. "I want to know your name. Please," he said. "As a paying customer-"

"You only paid for the suite," she reminded him, her eyebrow arching slightly as she allowed the other strap to descend. It was getting harder for him to focus, or care, about anything other than what she was drawing his attention to.

"Okay," he said, unable to see the importance in continuing, or the importance with words in general.

"There are only two rules. One, and this one is very important, no touching. And secondly, no names."

"Why no names? I have to call you something."

"Hmm…" she said, obviously toying with him, "Okay. You can call me Angel. Tonight anyway."

"I like that," he said, not sure whether he was responding to her coy suggestion or the fact that she had taken her top off as she said this, her silky black bra the only thing covering her chest now.

"What do you want?" she asked.

_I want to play a game_

…_with handcuffs and blindfolds and…_

"Do you want me to take off my top now, or go slowly? What do you like?" she purred in his ear.

"Slow," he commanded in a voice barely above a whisper. She shuddered, an inadvertent response to his voice. It did not go unnoticed. Mark watched her face now, observing the subtle effect _he_ had on _her_.

She mounted him, staying true to her no-touch rule, hovering above him mere inches away from contact. It took pure will power not to tear her clothes apart. He soon found out her no touching rule clearly did not apply to her touching herself, which she did in a most visually pleasing way.

After an eternity in his mind that must have only been minutes in reality, he felt her dancing was almost becoming frustrating with how close she would get before pulling away. But her top was undone in the back, all she needed to do was move a little more and let it slip off…

After so much teasing, it was a physical shock to his body to at last feel her contact against his body. She softly pressed up against him and stroked his chest with her hand. He remained calm on the surface, but inside desire was pulsing through him. She slid her hand over his.

"You're breaking your own rules," he said, his eyes not wavering from her face.

"Some rules are meant to be broken," she whispered. She took his hand and slid it down, his fingertips grazing her bare skin. Her head tossed back in pleasure, feigned or not he couldn't decipher, but inside he felt that he had some effect on her; he wasn't just a cash opportunity. She wanted his touch, that skin-on-skin contact. He could feel it in the way her hand trembled so slightly on top of his, the way he could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

"Do you want to finish this somewhere else?" he asked. They stared at each other, their faces mere inches apart.

"I remember where I saw you," she said slowly, pulling her bra back up and scooting away from him. "You were in the paper. You're that cop who planted evidence."

"What? No. I never did that." he said honestly. Technically she was wrong. But her misunderstanding wasn't that far from the truth.

"I don't like cops," she said. She re-clasped her bra and started getting dressed.

"Don't be like that," he said.

"Show's over."

"You don't understand."

She stood up and prepared to leave, turning back to look at him once more. He studied her face in seconds, as we had become accustomed to doing, and saw disappointment.

_So why is she leaving? _

Mark got up and followed her out of the room. The club filled up while they were in there, and Mark lost her in the crowd. He did stumble into Eric through the chaos.

"That fucking bitch! She gave me one look and turned her nose up like I was some piece of trash," Eric slurred, and continued ranting obscenities about the girl who had just rejected him. Mark heard his vulgarities without truly comprehending the information he was receiving. He couldn't get her out of his mind, not the sight of her accentuated curves or the feeling of her skin. And the way she looked at him before she left…he knew she fought with the decision.

"Eric, what do you expect? She's a kid," Mark said, referring to the girl they say earlier, although not entirely sure if Eric had changed the object of his infatuation again in the last half hour.

Eric just shook his head in anger. He wobbled over to the counter and used it for balance.

"Eric, you're wasted. Let me take you home."

"I'm fine," he managed to say in a sober voice, but Mark saw right through him.

"C'mon. I'm driving you home."

Mark sat in his car, staring at the flashing lights, wondering what was wrong with him, and why he had driven all the way to Eric's place and then come back. He scolded himself for his stupidity or desperation or both, but once the cars began to depart and he saw her coming out through the double doors, he forgot all of that. He got out of his car and followed her. He didn't lose her this time; she was conspicuous in the nearly empty parking lot, and she was still wearing her signature color.

When she approached her car, he contemplated whether or not to talk to her, or just slip into the shadows and let her go. The latter option seemed especially craven after he had come all this way just to see her again. Before he could decide, she spoke.

"What do you want?" she said, making eye-contact with him through the reflection cast by the tinted window of her car.

"I just wanted…" he began slowly, uncertain of the next words he'd so carefully mapped out in his head. The alcohol slurred his thoughts. Suddenly revealing himself from the shadows didn't seem like a good decision after all.

"I'm a stripper, not a prostitute," she said in a calm voice, as though she were used to the misconception all the time. She continued to lock eyes with him through their reflections. Her face remained expressionless, but her eyes gave her away. They widened just slightly as he had approached her, and she had not become eased at all. He thought she must have frozen in fear.

"I didn't mean to come across like that. That's not what I was implying."

His impulses the result of intoxication or negligence or both, he put his hand on her shoulder and spin her around towards him. He pressed against her slightly with his hips, making her back up against the car. He had essentially pinned her down, into a position he found quite favorable, but he did not do so in a particularly threatening manner, more insinuation than force.

He leaned towards her and breathed in her scent. He pulled her hair back with his fingers and whispered in her ear.

"I want you."

Immediately he felt a cold blade pressed against his throat.

"Back off," she said, holding the knife up to him. The seriousness in her eyes immediately made him retreat. Something in her voice hinted she lacked the hesitation he might expect from a normal person. His gestures spoke for him. He backed off, looked her in the eyes, and turned away.

After he walked away, she got into her car and tried to start it, but her trembling hands couldn't get the key in. She took a deep breath and sobbed. Only after she felt the tremors go away did she attempt to leave.

His seductive voice still lingered in her mind, as well as the memory of her hand gliding his across her skin, the way he looked at her in that suite…Unlike most gawking guys, she could feel something more fervent beneath the surface, and it both scared her and excited her. She looked at the knife in her other hand and shook her head.

_I was out of line. Get a hold of yourself, Amanda._

She tossed it in her bag anyway. It was more effective at keeping the creeps away than any other method she'd tried before, except maybe a gun, which she didn't own. She thought about Mark. Maybe he was harmless, maybe he wasn't.

What she did know, was that he was intense. Intriguing. And he had definitely gained her interest.


	3. Vengence Can Change a Person

**Chapter Rating: PG-13 for violence and language**

**Timeline: Majority of this chapter is before the Saw movies begin**

**Chapter 2**

**Vengence Can Change a Person**

Mark's fingers twitched when he heard the knocking. He fought the insane impulse to seize his gun and instead stared at the door, anticipating the worst.

_He wouldn't knock. You're being stupid now; if he came, he wouldn't knock._

"Mark, open the damn door," Eric said.

He sighed and got up from his desk to let Eric in.

"What the hell is your problem?" he said, putting his coffee on Mark's desk as casually as if it were his own. He sat in his usual chair, the one adjacent to the bookcase that gave him a perfect view of Angelina's pictures and of the peg board where Hoffman used to keep articles of his department's major accomplishments. It had been moral support for Mark, a way to help him cope when everything felt monotonous, all their efforts futile. Now articles about corruption covered his pegboard, mostly written by Pamela Jenkins. The article about Seth Baxter's release was in the center.

"Fuck, Mark. Are you _trying_ to make yourself suicidal?"

"It's the only time we're mentioned in the papers anymore; I guess the era of being heroes is over."

"So what are we then? We sure as hell aren't the bad guys. They're out there," Eric said as he gestured to the door that lead to outside the building. "We put our lives on the line everyday; we keep order when there isn't any. There are lines, and maybe we crossed them. But we did the right thing. What we are doing is the right thing."

"Is it? You honestly believe that?"

"Yeah, I do," Eric said, reclining back comfortably in his chair as he said this. He looked up at Angelina's picture and then back at Mark.

"You thought anymore about what you are going to do?"

"No," Mark lied, looking directly at Eric. "I told you, there is nothing we can do."

"There is something. There's always something."

"Eric, as it is, you could face criminal charges or loose your job. No more. It's become an obsession with you."

Eric stared at Mark.

"One more time. It would be worth it," he said, staring at him with the eyes of an addict looking for one last fix, but Hoffman knew, and Eric knew deep down, that one last fix for an addict was the beginning of a new downward spiral. If he didn't quit now, he never would.

"No," Mark said, "You know you're sounding like a junkie right now."

"Screw you," Eric said, flying up from his seat. "I'm just trying to do you a fucking favor."

"I don't need anymore of your favors. Yeah, that's right, just storm out like an immature child," he said. The vibrations of the door slamming made his bookcase tremble, and quickly Mark had to catch one of the pictures before it fell. Eric's yelling could have still been heard if Mark hadn't mentally drifted away as he held the frame in his hand, staring directly into her dark eyes and smiling face.

_I love you, Mark. You and me forever, _he could hear her say in his memory. Then he heard his own voice speaking back to her.

_But why do you always leave me to hang out with your friends? And that trashy guy you hang around that you call your boyfriend…you know he only wants one thing._

_So that's what this is really about. You don't know him Mark. He's different. He loves me._

_They always say they love you, Angelina. _

_But he means it!_

_No,_ I_ mean it. _I_ love you, Angelina. _I_ am the only one who _really_ loves you._

_Mark, I need a different kind of love. A kind you can't give me. More than just brotherly love. _

_Just promise me you won't ever leave me._

_I promise, _she had said.

She had lied, hadn't she? She hadn't meant to; there was no way she could have foreseen what was to come, but she did leave him, and now there was no one to turn to.

Nothing to hold on to.

As the tears began to emerge, a deep male voice interrupted his thoughts.

"What's going on with you and Eric? Lovers quarrel?"

Mark quickly swiped the tears away, thankful he had his back turned to Rigg when he entered. He placed the picture of Angelina back on the bookcase and tried to hide his face.

"What have I told you about knocking?" he said, like a father scolding his son. Rigg despised being talked down to. He thought Mark's reaction strange; Mark had always treated him with respect, as an equal despite the fact Mark was his superior. When Rigg saw Mark putting the picture back on the shelf, realization struck him. His expression turned from annoyance to sympathy, but he ignored Mark's tears to let him salvage some of his pride.

"Eric needs to learn to control his temper," Rigg said, feeling that Mark needed to hear this information more than Rigg needed to spare his feelings. "Kerry tried to calm him down, and he flung her off of him. He touches her again and I'll kill him."

Mark nodded his head. "I'll talk to him. It's partly my fault; we started talking about something, and I suppose I could have handled it better."

"I know you and Eric are friends, but you can't constantly keep defending him."

"Stay out of it. Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"I'm on no one's side," he said, but then added, "I hope Eric doesn't get kicked out. But a little reprimand wouldn't hurt him. He's out of control."

"And I'm sure you can relate to that feeling," Hoffman said, insinuation embedded in his voice. Rigg looked at Mark, his eyes quivering slightly as his mind flashed back to the moment where he attacked the man who beat his own daughter. The marks on that girl's arms were still seared into his memory.

_Rex_, he recalled only too quickly, the incident as fresh in his mind as if it had just occurred. He'd had no control in that moment. If Mark hadn't pulled him off, he'd be in even worse trouble than Eric.

Mark stared at Rigg, silently asking him, _Do you really want to go there?_

"I'm fully aware of how to handle Eric. Let me do my job. I do my best to keep everyone in line."

After a brief pause, Mark stared him in the eyes and said, "I can handle it."

Rigg quickly nodded his head and turned for the door. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Mark.

"I sure hope you're right about that," he said. He left. Before Mark could even turn around, the phone was ringing. He lifted the receiver to his ear and properly greeted the caller, even though he wasn't technically on duty. Silence answered him.

_That's him_, Mark thought. He flinched, and then, ashamed of his automatic response, he hung up the phone. Maybe he'd make a little stop on the way home.

Seth's apartment looked grungier than he remembered. He thought it would be harder to track him down, but with the vast amount of resources the department offered it had taken him literally a day to find him. Mark had hoped he would be strong enough to resist stalking him, but inside he kept hearing Eric's voice.

_There are lines, and maybe we crossed them. But we did the right thing. What we are doing is the right thing._

"Room 420, the last room down the hall," the man at the front desk told Mark when he flashed his badge. He walked down the corridor and approached the door, contemplating his next action, when he heard shouting. His instincts told him to kick the door down to help the screaming woman, but the logical side protested that his presence here would not look good if some domestic disturbance were to occur. He would surely be accused of harassment or worse.

His impulse to help her overcame any reasonable apprehension he possessed. He knocked three times, his knuckles beating against the door twice each time.

"Open the door, or I'm kicking it down."

The door swung open, and a timid girl with bleeding mascara and an outfit that looked like it had been torn to shreds by a rabid dog answered. Her face was flushed with red in a way that can only by caused by intense crying. Although her appearance pleaded for help, her calm voice contrasted sharply with that message.

"What do you want?"

It was the voice of someone who mastered the act of suppressing emotional turmoil.

"Marie!" a voice from inside the apartment called, "Who is it?"

She cringed slightly at the sound of his voice.

"What do you want?" she said with more agitation.

"I heard screaming. Do you need help?" Mark asked, his voice full of sympathy.

She shook her head and attempted to shut the door, but his hand grasped the door, preventing her from shutting him out. Her eyes, made all the more conspicuous by the surrounding dark smudges of ruined make up, begged him to leave. He'd seen this face before. Despite what she said, past experience would not let him walk away to permit what was inevitably going to happen occur again.

"You ever need help, call this number," he said, giving her his personal number. She took it and folded it in half, her fidgety hands toying with the card as a distraction. She looked up at him helplessly, with new tears beginning to form.

"Please, please leave," she whispered.

_So naive…_ he thought sadly.

"Marie!" he heard Seth's voice clear now. Mark clinched his fists, and because of years of practice, he was able to restrain his anger. With an expressionless face, he nodded his head and turned away.

He later convinced himself she was the reason for every action he took thereafter. All of it stemmed from that encounter, every meticulous detail and intricate plan associated with the execution of a man who escaped his condemnation. All of it was the result of her tear stained eyes, pleading for help without her even being aware of her desperate need for safety.


	4. Vigilante

**Chapter Rating: R for violence**

**Timeline: This takes place mostly before Seth's trap**

**Chapter 3 "Vigilante"**

**"He didn't deserve a chance! He was an animal!" –Hoffman's opinion of Seth**

Weeks after the incident that dominated the news and put everyone under close scrutiny, the number of articles exploiting the flaws of Mark's department dwindled down. They had picked up on a new, more shocking story. Mark pegged the latest article by Pamela Jenkins onto his board.

_Murder, or rehabilitation?_

She had mentioned the department, not yet stating her opinion on the way they were handling the case. "_It was too premature to know," _she claimed. The slight reference to his department and the infamy of the reporter were not the only reasons his attention was drawn to the article. The MO of this new killer, this man the press had coined "_Jigsaw_," intrigued him.

He stared at the headline, embedding the words into his mind. He reviewed the content of the article again, focusing especially on the parts where it mentioned his victims are those that do not appreciate life. Mark's thoughts lingered on that single detail, and an idea came to him, an epiphany that was the result of his extensive obsession over Seth and what happened to his sister.

He consumed himself with the idea for weeks, not wanting to act rashly. He was getting comfortable with the proposal that once shocked even him. It didn't help that he still saw Angelina's face in every dead woman at every crime scene since her passing. That he couldn't bury the horror because it was all around him. It was his job. It was his life.

Every time he remembered that night…

_"Leave me alone!" _he had screamed. Only he barely remembered forming words. The sickening sound of his sobbing, almost an inhuman noise, was the sound that accompanied that memory. He recalled stroking her hair, crying over her body, kissing her hand, seeing the looks of pity from his fellow officers as they tried to restrain him from the crime scene, and feeling coldness radiating from her skin that seeped into him and never seemed to completely leave, even now.

That was why every spare moment had been devoted to building the perfect machine that he would use to get his revenge. That coldness had driven him to this level of obsession. He spent hours reading and experimenting with new materials. Everything he needed was easily accessible from local hardware stores. He bought a little here, and a little there, so that he wouldn't look conspicuous. He looked around as he browsed, wondering if he wasn't standing next to Jigsaw himself. The thought intrigued him, but he didn't dwell on it. If Jigsaw did get his supplies here, surely he had the same concerns of remaining unobtrusive as Mark did. A slight grin spread across his face, generated by the ironic thought that he was imitating the man he was hunting, thinking the same way, performing the same actions. But their motives were entirely different, and that simple fact was what enabled Mark to continue.

Much sooner than Mark originally expected, he realized the time had come. He had the stage set: the fake Jigsaw video, the rigged trap, even the hole he'd drilled in the door so that he could observe everything went to plan. Everything was ready, except him. He still had to mentally prepare himself. Not that it was an issue of morality any longer. By seeing that Seth's new girlfriend facing the same inevitable, doomed fate as his sister, he managed to convince himself it was no longer an act of revenge, but the only way to free someone innocent by destroying something wicked.

Although deep inside, he knew it was also a chance to redeem himself for not saving Angelina.

A couple days later, he finally made the decision to do it. He wasn't sure exactly when he made the choice. It seemed as though he'd already started setting up the trap before he'd fully made up his mind, as though his subconscious was trying to coax him into a decision. Was the decision made when he finished the trap, or when he started making it, or maybe before then, when he was buying supplies? Or even before that, when a helpless woman opened the door to Seth's apartment? Maybe it was before that, when he saw Angelina's fatal wounds…

After reflecting, he realized it didn't matter. _Maybe I am an instrument of fate,_ he thought, although he'd prefer to think he did his work on behalf of justice as well. As he mused on the idea, he thought that, as much as this sounded like a cop out to his own mind, maybe _he never had a choice at all. _And although he couldn't logically explain why it was that way, he feltthat was the right explanation. _Maybe the grim reaper doesn't pick his victims, but is just following orders from higher up._ That is what he felt like. That is the persona he was taking, the character whose role he was exploring. He was fate…and justice. An officer is always justice. And in this case, fate was death.

After deciding he would go through with it, the "when" part of his plan fell into place. Mark had done his homework. After a bit of on-line stalking via social networking websites, he'd discovered Marie would be visiting her mother on her 50th birthday. It was some huge family gathering that Marie had complained. _"Seth never bothers to go to. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that he's letting me leave the house this time to go."_

Mark leaned back and stared at his computer. He finally had the date set. It was so perfect, as if fate was subordinating itself to his will. He put his hand in his jacket pocket, his finger gliding against the syringe he would soon be using. The feeling finally washed over him. The feeling of knowing _it was time._

**(The Night of the Kidnapping)**

Mark thought he would have the upperhand. He had a gun ready, a syringe in his pocket, and he would be wide awake versus Seth's half-awake state at 3 AM.

But Mark did not expect to encounter a fully conscious man. Rather than freak out at the masked intruder in his home, he immediately took action. He grabbed a large knife from the kitchen and lunged for Mark. He grabbed Seth and threw him on the ground.

Seth fumbled the knife to the floor. The sound of metal clanking against the tile reverberated. Mark tried to grab the sedative stored in his pocket, but never got the opportunity to reach into his jacket. Seth knocked him onto the ground.

He threw Seth off of him and grabbed the gun from his belt. His gloved hand clinched the weapon, his index finger hovering over the trigger.

They both stood still, less than a few feet apart, anticipating the each other's next action.

"What do you want?" Seth asked. His hands were in the hair, spread out as though he were a surrendering criminal caught in the act. Seth had no idea how ironic his gesture was.

Mark remained silent, uncertain that he should speak and thus give himself away. He was a vigilante dispensing justice; to take off his mask or speak and show Seth who he was would be making it about revenge. While he was determining a new way to get Seth out of the apartment since he couldn't get close enough to administer the drug, Seth attacked him and knocked him over. Mark collapsed under Seth's weight, and the gun flew across the kitchen. Mark tried to crawl over to it, but the knife was closer, and Seth managed to obtain it before Mark could get to the gun. Seth tried to penetrate the knife into Mark's chest, but he moved just in time to avoid Seth's blade. Mark wasn't as lucky the second time.

"Fuck!" he screamed. The knife slashed his chest, not deep enough to cause severe injury, but certainly not superficial enough to avoid pain and inevitable scarring. However, in Seth's attempt to injure Mark, the knife had been flung across the room. Mark took this opportunity to go for the gun. As he grasped the weapon, he immediately reacted in defense. He pointed the gun at Seth, but misfired. Seth tried to take the gun from Mark. They struggled for possession of the weapon. Seth got on top and put all of his weight into knocking the gun out of Mark's grasp, but Mark threw him off. He saw Seth looking at him, helplessly sprawled on the floor. Fighting the urge to murder him right there, he lowered his arm and grabbed the needle out of his pocket.

_In the end…he'll suffer more this way. He doesn't deserve to go out that easily._

Mark jabbed the needle into Seth's side, and watched as he went limp under the influence of the drug.

**(Later that Night)**

He knew he was more excited than a vigilante should be. He'd accepted his actions only under the excuse that they were noble, because he was saving Marie. But he couldn't resist the sheer thrill he got out of seeing Seth laying on the table, and knowing that Seth was doomed. Knowing that Seth didn't know his own fate, that he thought he still had a chance, made Mark even more gleeful inside. He wondered if serial killers got the same thrill from their victims. He wondered especially if this is how Jigsaw felt.

_But it's different. Because I am defending the innocent, not hurting them._

He heard Seth's moaning and yelling. He pressed his face closer to the door to get a bigger view. Seth struggled in his chains. Mark pressed the switch that would start the video. He watched Seth's horrified expression as he realized what was going on. He started shouting pathetic excuses and lies, saying that her death was an accident. Mark snarled in disgust. _He is such a pathetic human being. He doesn't deserve life. If anyone deserves to be tested by Jigsaw anyway, it's him_.

Mark half expected Seth would be too frantic and out of his mind to do what the tape said, not that it mattered anyway. But despite the fear, Seth had enough awareness to obey the tape and destroy his hands, the hands that destroyed the lives of so many, including Mark's. After Angelina's death, he'd had nothing left.

The blade continued to descend.

Seth just finished destroying his other hand. He was looking around helplessly as the blade continued to lower.

His screaming grew louder, more frantic as he realized it wasn't working. Something had gone wrong.

The blade fell low enough to finally strike Seth's abdomen. He let out an even louder scream, one that reverberated throughout the entire room, giving an almost haunting vibe as it echoed. Seconds later, guts and other internal organs flung across the room. Blood poured out of his stomach, seeping into the table and floor.

"I did what I was supposed to," he whispered, dying in confusion and an all-consuming violent pain rippling through his body. He looked at the door and saw Mark's blue eye staring. It was impossible to know if he recognized Mark, but it sent a chill through him anyway. He quickly turned around, unable to look at the carnage anymore. He expected relief to wash over him, but nothing came. No relief, yet no regret either. It was as though he had finally taken his vigilante status to a whole new level. Although he had gotten his revenge, and Mark could not deny that was a big part of his plan, perhaps that even initiated his whole scheme, he felt a numb, paralyzing sympathy gnawing at his heart. Seth deserved to die. Using Jigsaw's MO was the perfect cover. And most of all, Seth deserved it.

Tonight he would have to drink the incident out of his mind. Tomorrow it would all make sense again.


	5. Rehabilitation

****

Timeline: Mostly during a flashback scene in Saw V and a little before

**Rating: PG-13 for language**

**Chapter 4**

**Rehabilitation**

**"Once a subject has past one of my tests, they become instantly rehabilitated." –Jigsaw**

**"You didn't see the blood! You didn't see what he fucking did to her!" -Hoffman**

"Hoffman, we got another body. You up for this?" Fisk asked.

"Yeah," Mark replied, after pretending to give it a little consideration. In reality, it was all he'd thought about since the night after Seth's execution. He got plastered afterwards and then fell asleep at the bar. After an annoyed bartender rudely woke him up, he somehow made it home and into his own bed. But since that night, he'd tried to stay completely sober, so he'd be more aware at work and thus less likely to slip up and say something suspicious about Seth. Now was the time to feign ignorance and put on an act he'd pray no one would see through.

A half-hour later, they arrieved at the crime scene. Fisk gave Mark standard information about the victim. Mark nodded thoughtfully as though he didn't already know all of this by heart. They walked around, at last coming to the body amidst all the carnage around them.

"He served five years. He just got out recently…" Fisk continued to say.

"I know him," Hoffman said. Fisk looked momentarily surprised, possibly shocked at Mark's cool demeanor.

"His name is Seth Baxter. My sister's ex-boyfriend."

Fisk's surprise intensified. The pitch of his voice rose a little higher as he asked, "This is the guy that murdered your sister?"

"He was supposed to serve 25 years. It got reduced to five on a technicality." He grew quiet as though that was all there was to say on the matter. He looked around and was thankful no one was looking at him suspiciously. Everyone was distracted with obtaining evidence and trying to solve the case, completely unaware that the person they were so desperately seeking for was right there among them.

Fisk looked at Seth, and then turned to Hoffman.

"Well then I'd say justice was served."

Mark made no expression at Fisk's statement, but inside he was smirking with self-righteousness.

* * *

As they left Seth's crime scene, Mark maintained a tranquil expression, yet inside he had an adrenaline rush from nerves. Everything had been planned perfectly. He knew the way these investigations worked, yet he felt trepidation consume him as he worried that something would draw the suspicion of one of the dozen crime scene investigators. He'd memorized their procedures by heart, but he knew they were meticulous when it came to inspecting crime scenes. Any detail, anything out of the ordinary could eventually lead to his ruin.

He carried this anxious emotion with him as he entered his apartment complex. On his way to his apartment, he heard a sound that caused him to go into defense mode. He drew his gun, allowing his automatic responses to take over. Maybe this time it would be advantageous to be cautious. Maybe this time it would be an actual threat.

Suddenly, a large German Sheppard leaped at him, restrained only by a leash held by a rather large black woman.

"Get down, Pee-Wee!" she yelled.

He sighed in relief. "Pee-Wee," he muttered, shaking his head at his own foolishness, "Shit."

He smirked a little, laughing at himself. It was only the mutt that had woke him up the night before once he'd finally managed to pass out, after drinking himself into a stupor and nearly breaking into his neighbor's place after he was convinced someone had changed the locks on his apartment. His muscles relaxed as he entered a more tranquil state of mind, sensing he was just overly paranoid again, a disorder many of the cops he'd counseled suffered from. He decided he'd drink the rest of the beer in his refrigerator and pass out rather than call Eric and see if he wanted to go out drinking again. Since Eric's grief with Internal Affairs had intensified lately rather than dissipated, he decided he really wasn't ready to deal with his temper today.

Mark didn't notice one of the guys leaving the elevator giving him a strange look, a warning glance, that there was something…not quite right with the man who remained in the elevator. Mark faintly sensed it as well, but he consciously decided that his emotions were just particularly out of whack because of what he'd been through lately.

"Going up?" Mark asked.

"Yes, thank you."

Mark pushed the button to his floor, and turned his back towards the man. He felt confident he'd make it to his apartment and was already imagining himself sitting in bed, drinking, and maybe he'd watch a few episodes of _CSI_ and laugh about how terribly inaccurate and badly acted it was. Then imagine them trying to solve the Jigsaw case.

But as he happened to glance at the elevator buttons again, he noticed that only one was lit up. His own. The man in the elevator hadn't selected a floor. The man in the elevator had been _waiting_. Mark's suspicious were correct this time. He sensed there was something wrong, but he held himself together. All he needed to do to get control of the situation was to be calm and get a hold of his weapon. _Just to grab the handle to the gun, and pull it out._

"What floor are you going to?" he asked as casually as he could, the only mind distraction he could think of as he focused his attention on obtaining his gun.

The mysterious man behind him was too quick though. One moment Mark was standing and in the next, he felt the coldness of the elevator wall against his face as he was shoved against it, as well as the sharp pain from the syringe jabbed into his neck, where the paralyzing drug took immediate effect on him before he even fully realized what was going on. He fought with all his instincts, but his body wasn't physically capable of fighting back once the drug was coursing through his veins.

"I think we're both going to the same place," the man said in a cold, calculating voice, one that would haunt him day and night in the months to come.

It was the last thing Mark heard before he collapsed onto the floor.

* * *

Angelina's soft whisper woke him. Her voice was sweet as always, but potent with warning and fear.

__

Mark…Mark…wake up.

His eyelids fluttered as he adjusted his eyes to the light. He felt a sharp pain in his neck from where the needle punctured him and turned his head in response. The first images that flashed before his eyes were quick snapshots of the day before. Seth's mutilated corpse, the crime scene, the apartment, the elevator…then emerging into total blackness. The first image of reality, of the present moment to come into his mind was the sight of the wrist restraints holding him prisoner. Confused and disoriented, he gently pulled at them, but ceased once he heard the faint sound emitted from the weapon strapped to him. He turned his head merely an inch and realized that he was staring into the barrel of a shotgun. Surprise became evident in all of his facial features, overcome only by the panic that consumed him, a feeling he couldn't even try to repress.

He looked up and saw the man who brought him there leaning against the table and sipping from a small cup. Somehow he appeared completely casual and yet terrifying at the same time. It was the unwavering stare he maintained, the direct eye contact that instigated those feeling in Mark. He felt like screaming and demanding answers, yet he was too petrified to move. And at the same time, he felt he must be dreaming or hallucinating. Maybe the fear of getting caught made him loose his mind. It's only when the man spoke that Mark realized the situation was reality.

"You know why you're here, don't you?

But Mark didn't know. If the throbbing pain in his neck and head had gone away, he might have been able to think clearly and give some kind of response, but at that moment, he was too unsure and too afraid to reply to his question. Mark looked at the man, silently pleading for mercy with his wide eyes and trembling bottom lip.

"They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but I find it rather…distasteful to be given credit for work that's not mine."

The man held up a newspaper in front of Mark. The bold headline caught his attention.

****

Jigsaw Killer Responsible for Pendulum Murder

For a moment the fear dissipated, and he thought like a cop again. He checked the date to see how long he'd been missing, to predict if his department was out looking for him yet. Unfortunately he hadn't been gone over 48 hours, since the article was only a day old. He scanned the article and wasn't surprised that he already knew who the author was. The only reporter who seemed to get information just as quickly as the police department. Pamela Jenkins.

He looked up at the man as trepidation began to creep into him again. He still wasn't sure what this meant, or who this man was. His mind was foggy with the aftereffects of the drug and the fear of the gun pointing in his face.

"…especially inferior work."

_Who is this guy?_ Mark was trying to listen to him and assess the situation at the same time. And it was difficult just to ignore the pain searing through him, far worse than any handover he could remember.

"Like you, I know what it's like to loose family. I know what it's like not to be able to protect loved ones. It's a powerless feeling."

Marks wasn't fully comprehending what the man was saying. He tried pulling against the restraints again and quickly realized it was a bad idea.

"I wouldn't do that," the man said, verbalizing Mark's thoughts. Suddenly, the man pulled out a full-length mirror and set it in front of them. He glared at Mark and asked, "What do you see?"

_What does this guy want?_

"Vengeance can change a person. Make you into something you never thought you were capable of being. But unlike you, I've never killed anyone. I give people a chance."

"You call this a chance?" Mark said.

"We'll see. Our game has just begun."

"Our game?" Mark replied, getting angrier by the moment._ It's just a bit of fun for him. The man is just toying with me. What right does he have to play with people's lives?_

"You don't even know me," Mark replied.

The man seemed amused by Mark's comment. He seemed amused by Mark's every reaction, as though he knew everything that was going to happen in this interaction and was merely participating for the entertainment of seeing it all play out. He chuckled, his laugh raspy as though he wasn't accustomed to doing it. He smiled at Mark and replied, "Oh, I know you. I've followed you, as you pursued me."

Mark was instantly furious again. He wanted to tear through those flimsy restraints and choke the man with his bare hands. Someone really had been following him around this whole time, making him paranoid, making him feel as though Seth was stalking him, biding his time for revenge. If that damn shotgun wasn't trigged by the restraints on his wrists, Mark knew the conversation would have ended in bloodshed.

"I know about your sister. I know how you cared for her."

Mark thought of Angelina. Her hugging him and kissing him on the check after he got promoted to detective. She had been so proud. It had been one of the rare moments where Seth hadn't tagged along, where he'd had her all to himself. She had been so wonderful. She had been a bright light in contrast to all the darkness surrounding him.

"I know she was your only family."

Her corpse lying on the bed returned to Mark's mind. He fought against the officers pulling him back as he screamed at them. "Leave me alone! No!" He ran to her. That fatal wound in her throat, evidence of a moment of hostility on Seth's part, became clearer and clearer. Her hand, carelessly hanging over the edge of the bed, seemed to reach out for help. He took it and kissed it. If only he hadn't hesitated to get rid of Seth. If only he had forced her to come home…

"You sit in bars until closing. You drink so you can sleep. You stagger to your car, and then you do it all over again the next day."

The man's voice interrupted Mark's thoughts. Jovial memories contrasted by the horrific images of her death. It seemed they always came together in Mark's mind. He couldn't think of one happy memory without another agonizing one accompanying it, intensifying his pain even more.

He looked up at the man who was shaking his head in disapproval.

"Then I discovered what you do for recreation."

Mark looked away in guilt. He didn't understand. He didn't know everything. He didn't know about Marie, about the life Mark was saving by taking Seth's. He didn't know it wasn't all about the revenge. He didn't see what Mark had been through, couldn't possibly understand.

"You can dispense justice, and give people a chance to value their lives in the same moment."

_He's an idealistic lunatic. So what does he want with me. What am I doing here?_

"And by the way, the blade on your pendulum was inferior. If you want a true edge, you have to use tempered steel. Tempered steel is better for the long haul. Are you in this for the long haul Detective?"

"I've been a cop for 20 years. Is that long enough for you?" Mark said.

"Then you and I both know the statistics for repeat offenders. 67.5% of criminals in this city are back in prison within three years."

"What do you want from me?" Mark yelled. He felt blamed for this, perhaps not without cause. But the gun pointing in his face and the man's endless ranting and seeming omniscience was getting to him, making him loose his temper.

"You might look at what you did to Seth as a kind of public service."

"She was my only family," Mark explained. "He didn't deserve a chance. He was an animal!"

"Everybody deserves a chance!" the man yelled at Mark, pointing the blade at his face. It was the first moment the man's control wavered. The tension escalated with his every word.

"You didn't see the blood! You didn't see what he fucking did to her!" Mark yelled, gradually loosing the will to sit there and take the mental torture, the images of Angelina's corpse returning to him against his will. And he felt his hatred for Seth returning again, more potent with every thought of her.

"Killing is distasteful_..._to me," the man yelled. He paused, before stating in a much calmer tone, "There is a better, more efficient way."

He put the blade away, but Mark didn't even have time to sigh in relief before he sat down next to Mark and put his finger on the trigger.

_This is it. This is how I'm going to die._

"What do you see?" he asked Mark.

"Look!" the man said, demanding Mark's attention. Instinctively, Mark's eyes darted to the mirror.

"What do you see?"

_Angelina..._he thought,remembering her smile. _Yeah, that's the last thought I want to have._ His lips still trembled in thought. He closed his eyes and imagined her, trying hard only to focus on the good things, on the happy moments that seemed so few, making them even more precious. Childhood memories were the easiest to remember with joy, that short period of time before Seth, before the car accident that took away their parents, before all the horror they had to endure.

There was a moment of hesitation in which Mark was unable to answer, because he knew that even the right answer was the wrong one.

"Tell me what you want!" Mark said. All the fear he tried to suppress in his voice was evident in his face.

"I want to know if you have what it takes to survive."

The man's finger grazed the trigger.

_It's over. _Mark realized._ He's insane. Survive…a shotgun blast to the head? Impossible. _

He was either going to die and see Angelina again, or at least he'd die and never have to think of the painful memories surrounding her death. He focused on the good thoughts while bracing himself for the impact of the shot that would end it all. The moment stretched on and on. He was sure every second would be his last. Until the sound of the trigger shattered his thoughts. He flinched, and the air in his chest that he'd been holding in as he anticipated the attack that never came got caught in his lungs. For a moment he was in denial of what had not happened. Once he finally realized that he was indeed alive, he panted, expelling all the air trapped inside him. He gasped like a drowning man as he remembered how to breathe.

"Fuck you," Mark said, once he could finally form words again. Tears emerged from his eyes. All the painful memories would come back to him again after all. Mark turned his head to face him. "Fuck you."

"You see it's a different method that I'm talking about. If a subject survives my method, he or she becomes instantly rehabilitated. Now do you want a chance? I'll give you a chance."

The man looked into the mirror, making eye contact with Mark as he did so.

"I am the man you call Jigsaw."

Mark's eyes widened.

Everything finally made sense.

"Now it's your duty to bring me in, but I know who you are. And I know what you've done."

"So this is blackmail?" Mark said, stating what he felt was the obvious, just for clarification.

"No, no, no, no….this is redemption."

Before Mark could even fathom the possibility of it, the man was already freeing him of the restraints that bound him to the chair.

"I'm just giving you an option, that's all. Now you can arrest me, but in doing so, your life ends as you know it. Or you can explore another method of rehabilitation that will permit you to sleep at night."

_He shouldn't have let me go, _Mark thought with increasing confidence. _He's pretty intelligent, but he slipped up big time if he thought scaring the shit out of me and lecturing to me would make me suddenly work with a serial killer._

He looked around for a weapon to defend himself with. Mark picked up the tempered steel blade lying on the desk.

"Or I could kill you right now," Mark said, hinting at his intention. He was mentally preparing himself for the act, but inside he still felt pangs of guilt at what he did to Seth. He wondered what the effects of committing another murder would have on his soul.

"But you're not a true killer. That's your dilemma. And the information I have on you is exactly where it needs to be, and it will be released in the event of my…disappearance." He smiled. Mark cringed inside.

"They'll never believe your word over mine," he said, more for the benefit of trying to convince himself than to convince Jigsaw. Mark couldn't look at him. If he was going to go through with it, he wouldn't be able to watch this time.

"You're willing to take that risk? Risk ruining your own life in order to protect a corrupt legal system that puts murderers back on the streets?"

Mark hesitated. He thought of Seth's trial and the insignificant technicality that got him released, despite the fact he was a confessed murderer caught red handed, literally red handed, drenched in Angelina's blood. The system Mark fought for was corrupt. Immorality always won in the end. The innocent were not always protected or even avenged. All his efforts seemed lost in futility.

Mark hated to admit it, but Jigsaw had a point.

"How would your sister feel?"

As if it was even needed, that was the clincher to Jigsaw's argument, the moment that Mark's final decision was made. He paused and thought of what she would want. She wouldn't want him to become a killer. If he was completely honest with himself, she wouldn't have even wanted him to kill Seth, and she certainly wouldn't have wanted him to risk ruining his life, ruining all of the good he could still do, by committing another murder and getting convicted of Seth's.

"You're at a crossroads Detective. Make your choice."

He set the blade on the table. It clanked against the wood.

"So…how does this rehabilitation work?" Mark said.

Although his back was still turned, Mark could feel it in his bones, could feel it all over.

Jigsaw was grinning.

**Author's Note: Thanks for being patient. Please comment and/or add story to your favorites. I'm almost done with the next chapter, in which Amanda will make a return to the story! :) And I'm sorry for any gramatical errors. I checked and double checked for mistakes, but I'm sure there are still a few.**


	6. Jigsaw Accomplice

**Rating: Pg-13 for mild violence and language **

**Timeline: A couple days after the last chapter **

**Chapter 5 **

**Jigsaw Accomplice**

**"Tonight you will see the difference between killing and rehabilitation." - Jigsaw**

Mark frowned as he opened the refrigerator. As a rule, he never threw alcohol out unless it spoiled. Well, if it ever spoiled. He'd never had to check for an expiration date because it never lasted very long in his house. But here he was, trash bag at his side, as he threw out bottle after bottle. Fortunately Jigsaw had trusted him to eradicate all the alcohol in his home without supervision, but Mark still wasn't taking any chances. He threw away bottle after bottle because once Jigsaw called Mark an alcoholic and said that he'd better _solve_ that problem before it became an issue, Mark obeyed.

As he slammed the door, Angelina's photo fluttered down onto the floor. He picked it up and smiled. Well, at least he knew she'd be proud of him for giving up drinking. She'd begged him to go to AA meetings, as if what Seth did wasn't far worse than drinking, but she'd always had higher expectations for Mark. She idolized him, perhaps undeservingly or perhaps with reason. His sense of morality hadn't gone downhill until after she was gone.

Mark put her picture back on the refrigerator. It would be the motivation he needed to never put another beer in there or in his body ever again.

* * *

"Tell me more about this rehabilitation," Mark said.

"I'll do something better than that," Jigsaw said with a smile. "I can show you. But first we have a task to do."

Jigsaw showed him a picture of a rather large man smiling with two adorable children. They were at a park, and he was lifting the boy and putting him on top of a slide while the girl looked up with a big smile with one of her teeth missing.

"Okay," Mark said. "What are we going to do to him?"

Jigsaw shook his head as if Mark's question had disappointed him.

"Only what he has already been doing to himself."

The next picture was far more disturbing than the previous. That same man had cuts all over his arms and wrists.

"What did you do to him?" Mark exclaimed, looking up at Jigsaw, who remained expressionless.

"He did that to himself, and he continues to. Tonight, we are going to help him. We are going to show him the error of his ways. Are you ready for this, Mark?"

"Yeah," Mark said. "Like I have a choice."

Jigsaw grabbed Mark's arm. He was surprisingly strong for an elderly man.

"You have a choice," he said. His grip remained firm. Mark yanked his arm away.

"Okay," Mark said. Jigsaw sighed.

"Mark, the man has a family. He has a purpose, yet he is completely oblivious to his fortune. We are going to show him what he has failed to appreciate. If he survives, he'll be thankful. It will be the best thing to ever happen to him."

"Let's just agree to disagree," Mark said. "Just because I'm being forced to help you doesn't mean I have to agree with you, does it?"

"We'll see. You may feel differently after tonight."

Jigsaw handed Hoffman a robe similar to the one he currently wore. Hoffman grabbed it and put it on over his clothes. He turned around and saw Jigsaw holding what looked like a huge chuck of flesh with hair. Upon further inspection, it resembled a pig head. He shirked away from it as though it carried the swine flu.

"What the hell is that?"

Jigsaw let out another chuckle, a little less creepy than the last laugh Mark had heard emitted from him. It almost sounded human.

"A disguise. I don't suspect you'd like to kidnap him without one, especially if he survives and could identify you."

Mark hesitated and then took it from him. "Let's go."

The car ride only lasted five minutes. Mark wished it had been longer. He'd said he was ready, but inside he felt his insides turning. He felt nauseous, but throwing up would be a terrible idea. The guys working in trace evidence would love that. He closed his eyes and remembered the scars and fresh cuts on his arms. Maybe this guy _could_ learn a thing or two.

"Now. There he is."

Mark looked straight ahead. Sure enough, the man was sitting in his car, having an emotional breakdown, both hands gripping the steering wheel.

Mark flinched as Jigsaw opened the door.

"Are you sure we can take him down? He's huge."

Jigsaw removed a syringe from his pocket and dangled it in front of him, causing Mark to cringe as he remembered the elevator. Jigsaw gave Mark a small chain.

"I trust you know what to do with this," he said, before sneaking out of the car.

Mark exited the car, crouching low and mimicking Jigsaw's movements, trying not to stray too far from him. He felt like a rookie cop again, about to bust a couple drug dealers and make an arrest. His heart pounded like he was new to the police force. After 20 years of being an officer, he never suspected he'd feel that way again, and he wished he never would. Before Mark could fully comprehend what was happening, Jigsaw attacked the man, but like Mark suspected, he easily threw him off. Mark came up behind him and tried to strangle him with the chain, but the man shoved Mark up against the brick wall several times, knocking the wind out of him, before he threw him on the ground.

"I'll fucking kill you!" the man screamed, before Jigsaw stabbed him in the neck with the syringe. He collapsed, helplessly trying to clutch something to stay upright.

They removed their masks after the task ended. Mark didn't realize he was crying until he felt the cold air on his face, turning his warm tears cold. He exchanged glances with Jigsaw. There was no going back now.

* * *

"I didn't expect to feel any remorse," he explained later as they sat waiting for Paul to wake up and begin his test.

"The heart cannot be involved. Emotionally there can be nothing there. It can never be personal."

"Let's go," Mark said, wanting to leave the warehouse and forget the events that had occurred earlier.

"No! Not yet. Tonight you will see the difference between killing and rehabilitation."

He led Hoffman over to a spot where he could observe the victim during the test. Hoffman cringed. He appreciated the irony of Jigsaw's trap, and understood the purpose of what he was tying to do, but the cruelty of it bothered him.

"There is another detective you should be aware of. His name is Tapp. He's smart and he's getting closer," Mark said. He didn't care about Jigsaw getting caught, but he was concerned about himself. Jigsaw could help him, since he was the reason he got into this mess in the first place.

"I know who he is. I need you to lead him to someone for me. A doctor. A healer in need of some healing."

Jigsaw placed a penlight on top of a table and turned to leave.

"Wait," Mark said.

"Yes?"

"The man we kidnapped tonight…what's his name?"

"It's of no importance."

"It is to me. I'm going to know eventually anyway. When they find his body. When I or someone in my department has to tell his family."

Jigsaw shook his head. He turned away, and Mark though that was it. Then he said, "Paul. His name is Paul. Now stop asking questions, and do what I ask."

Mark turned his head. He watched for almost three mind numbing hours. He watched a nearly naked man crawl through a maze of razor wire and scream in agony. The blades scraped his flesh. Constant animalistic cries reverberated in the room. Soon his entire body matched the wounds on his wrists. Mark watched, afraid to look away while Jigsaw was in the room. He closed his eyes when it became too much to bare, but by the end of the first hour, watching became easier.

Mark knew what Jigsaw was trying to do. He was trying to desensitize him to the victim's agony.

Mark only hoped it wasn't working.

A little after the second hour, the man stopped moving. For the first time, Mark looked away. He resisted the tears he wanted to shed. He looked over at Jigsaw.

"He's dead," Mark said.

Jigsaw nodded. His emotionless face made Mark wanted to slam him against the wall and demand that he feel something, anything. A man's life was over. Children were fatherless and a wife had lost her husband, and Mark had helped.

"Plant the evidence and go home," Jigsaw said. "And remember that I hold your life in my hands."

* * *

It had been harder to resist drinking after the incident with Paul. Everyday he went to work thinking that would be the day his body would be found. A few days later, Mark received another hang up call at work. It was time for another game.

"What is it?" Mark asked. Jigsaw's back was turned. He spun around in his chair. In his hands sat the most hideous wooden doll Mark had ever seen, with freakishly demented eyes and targets painted on his cheeks. Mark had made a replica of it for Seth's trap. It wasn't something he wanted to see again.

Then the doll unexpectedly laughed, if the terrible crackle coming from its mouth could rightfully be called that. Mark jumped back in response.

Jigsaw barely smiled at Mark being startled, but it was a genuine one. Jigsaw had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and his illness. He seemed to age years since the last time Hoffman saw him mere days ago.

"The trap is set. All we need to do is get our next subject."

"More like our next victim," Mark said. Jigsaw didn't reply. He looked too tired to put up any kind of argument. He knew he had Mark's obedience because of the blackmail, and that was good enough for the time being.

"Here," Jigsaw said. He extended his hand, giving Mark a syringe. He nearly dropped it before Mark was able to take it from him.

"What's wrong?" Mark said. His voice lacked true concern, but was filled with curiosity.

"My body is not well."

"Then maybe we should do this another night."

"No! No, everything is set. We cannot wait, and my body isn't going to be getting much better. There is no need to postpone our test. Come on."

As they travelled to their destination, Mark driving and Jigsaw giving directions, Mark remained silent. He didn't want to ask questions. He didn't want to know anything about this victim. He didn't want to think of the victim's family suffering, or the mistake they made that supposedly was a good enough reason to be tested. He wanted this person to be a complete stranger to him. A Jane or John Doe. Maybe that would make it easier.

Unfortunately, that was not to be.

* * *

Amanda yanked on her leather jacket and stumbled towards the door. The potent drugs were still in her system; The effects still felt strong.

"Amanda?"

She jerked away from the friendly hand on her shoulder. One of the security guards looked at her full of concern.

"You okay?" he said.

"Yeah," she said, clearly uncomfortable being in his presence. She'd seen him around a few times, but never bothered to talk with him before. Something was off about him. Although he did seem nice. The shy and harmless type. But quiet.

"I'm fine…" she said, squinting to read his nametag. "Noah."

She smiled at him, and he reciprocated with a bashful grin.

"Be careful. There are a lot of weirdoes that hang around this place at night."

"Yeah," Amanda said. Noah obviously didn't pick up on her sarcasm, for he flashed her another smile before she walked off.

Once she got to her car, however, she almost regretted not accepting his advice.

"Detective Hoffman? What are you doing here?" He didn't answer her.

"You know, if you keep spending all your free time in places like this, people are going to start thinking you're a crooked cop." The irony of it brought a smile to his lips. In full light, the smile would have looked subtle, radiating amusement, but half hidden in the dark, and perceived by a startled woman all alone, it looked intimidating.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, lowering his voice to a deep whisper and looking her in the eyes. His intense gaze paralyzed her, ripped her of all conscious thought except the realization she wanted to get physically closer to him, to have that skin on skin contact once more like that moment in the private suite that seemed so long ago.

She stumbled towards Mark, her attention completely devoted to him in that moment, hypnotized by his allure. She didn't know the answer. Her body reacted based on instinct alone, unaware it was seeking self-destruction like a moth enamored with a flame.

She didn't feel the needle penetrate her flesh until he had injected all of the drug into her system in a matter of seconds. She collapsed in his arms, and he held her up easily with his strong upper body. She struggled against him for a few seconds, her arms flailing wildly, her mouth gaping open in an almost silent scream, but her efforts were futile; He just tightened his hold on her.

"Trust me," he murmured in her ear. She lost consciousness and went limp in his arms.


	7. Save as I Save

**Timeline: Hours after the last chapter **

**Rating: R for intense description of violence **

**Chapter 6**

** Save as I Save **

**"You'd be surprised what tools can save a life." -Amanda**

She woke up to the taste of metal and blood. Her eyes fluttered open and her features conveyed her mounting confusion and panic as she noticed her unfamiliar surroundings, despite half her face being concealed by the instrument of destruction on her head. She tugged at the wrist restraints keeping her strapped down. A muffled screaming saturated the air as she continued fighting against the restraints.

The sudden light emitted from the television screen distracted her. She whimpered. A horrific looking puppet was looking away from her. Slowly his head turned to face her, causing her to flinch.

"Hello Amanda. You don't know me, but I know you. I want to play a game. Here's what happens if you lose. The device you are wearing is hooked to your lower and upper jaws. When the timer in the back goes off, your mouth will be permanently ripped open. Think of it like a reverse bear trap."

"Here. I'll show you," it said eagerly.

The faint ticking sound got louder until suddenly it stopped and was replaced by the earsplitting blast of crushing porcelain as the trap demolished the mannequin attached to it. Virtually nothing of it remained, except for the reverse bear trap. The trap that was now attached to her. She choked on a scream.

"There is only one key to open the device. It's in the stomach of your dead cellmate. Look around Amanda. Know that I'm not lying. You better hurry up. Live or die. Make your choice."

Amanda yanked against her restraints, the duct tape ripping a little more with her every tug. After what seemed like eternity, she was finally free of her binds, but her true test had not yet begun.  
As she stood up, the cord attached to her trap snapped back. She heard the click, and her hands shot up to feel around. She felt the timer counting down the seconds. What could be the last moments of her life if she didn't act soon.

She began hyperventilating and couldn't think straight. Her instincts told her to remove the device immediately. She tried grabbing it and throwing it off, but her efforts proved futile.  
Then she saw the body.

She stumbled towards the corpse. Amanda never imagined she'd have to cut someone open, even if he was already dead. She wasn't sure if she could mutilate a corpse. She had no experience that could even begin to prepare her for something like this. She crouched down towards him and lifted up his shirt. A black question mark had been painted on hid abdomen.

Amanda sobbed. _What have either of us done to deserve this? God, this is just a game to this psycho!_ she thought.

The clicking noise of the timer on her trap reminded her that her time was running out. She couldn't think about any of that now. The knife wobbled in her unsteady hand. She set aside her conscious thought and relied on her instincts that were pushing her towards survival.

Then the body stirred. Its eyes opened and looked at her, helplessly pleading for his life.

_He's alive!_

But if she hesitated, she wouldn't be.

Before she could analyze the situation and decide, her need for survival she'd eagerly let consume her consciousness made her choice for her.

She raised her arms and plunged the blade into his stomach. Again and again and again. Blood splattered across her face, the walls, and her victim, soaking into the cracks on the floor and the fabric of his clothes, drenching her hands. As she hammered into him, the crimson liquid poured out. His organs began to slide outside of his body with her every thrust. She dropped the dagger and dug through his insides, like a dog searching for a bone. And that's exactly what she felt like. An animal.

The organs slipped through her hands. Large intestines kept getting in her way as she rummaged around for the stomach. Suddenly she felt a hard bulge against the soft tissue of his stomach. She squeezed it and the precious key slithered out. She snatched it and reached behind her head, feeling around for the lock. She jammed the key inside of the lock and twisted. The trap opened up enough for her to pull her head out. It snapped shut when she dropped it a mere second later.

Sobs wracked her entire body. Her already smeared make up tainted her tears as they glided down her cheeks and merged with the blood covering the bottom half of her face. She quieted when she heard the sound of squeaking wheels. She looked up at the puppet she'd seen from the television. She lifted her hands over her face in instinct, feeling vulnerable and terrified. It had been barely a minute since she'd seen him, but it felt like a lifetime ago. She felt like a different person.

A dreadful crackling laugh echoed in the dark room. It repeated, sending shivers through her.

"Congratulations. You're still alive. Most people are so ungrateful to be alive. But not you. Not anymore."

She waited, expecting to see the lunatic behind this. When nothing happened, that part of her seeking survival took over and she overcame her fear enough to stand up and look for escape. She walked into the darkest part of the room and begin groping the walls, hoping to get away before the mad man that put her there came back to finish her off. Minutes later, she felt a smooth metal bar. She probed the walls like a blind person, hoping to feel the outline of a door. She sighed in relief when her suspicion was confirmed. She pushed against it. The sun stunned her, blazing its bright light straight into her eyes. She stumbled around, and once she regained her sight, she fled as quickly and as far as she could away from that nightmare.

* * *

Her heartbreaking wailing compensated for the lack of screaming of her paralyzed victim. What had occurred in the last minute was one of the worst things Mark had ever seen. It broke his heart. He turned away, unable to take anymore. At least it was over.

"She passed," Mark said.

"You sound surprised," Jigsaw said. Expressionless, like always, as if the outcome didn't affect him, even though Mark suspected it must.

_Whether the subject survives must have some impact on him; he's invested everything into these games._

"Well, I didn't expect her to."

"Did you want her to?"

"Yes," Mark said. "I don't want any of them to die."

"Of course," Jigsaw said. "But I noticed you seemed especially reluctant to help this time, Mark."

"I don't like hurting women," he said. "It seems barbaric."

Jigsaw smirked at him.

"Oh, is that all?"

"I've met her before. I was concerned about her well being. But I still did what you asked. And she survived," he said. He paused and locked eyes with Jigsaw. "She's rehabilitated, so we're going to leave her alone now, right?"

Jigsaw stood up and walked away, extending the distance between them. He removed his robe, the way someone takes off their work uniform after a long day.  
"Maybe," he said.

"Excuse me?" Mark said. He stood up to Jigsaw's level.

"What you just put her through…that will change her for the rest of her life. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"What I want is for ungrateful people to _cherish their lives_!" he yelled, beating his hand against the wall. His knuckles turned white. His eyes heated with passion. Then he began coughing. It escalated in intensity. Mark approached him to help, but he extended his hand, an indication for him to back away.

"I'm fine," he said. "Don't worry about her. As long as she doesn't forget the lesson she learned tonight, we'll have no reason to further interfere in her life."

Mark didn't want to ask about what happens if she didn't.

Jigsaw looked as though he were about to leave and retire for the night, but then he turned around and spoke.

"Goodnight, Mark. I'll suspect I'll see you again soon."

* * *

"Is that all you can remember, Mandy?" he heard Detective Tapp say. In retrospect, Mark knew he shouldn't have been surprised to see her here, but at the same time, it was unnerving. For the first time, the nightmare of his time with Jigsaw made contact with the part of his life that was supposed to be devoted to doing good for society.

He felt like Jigsaw had consumed his life. And seeing the pain in her eyes tore at his heart again.

"Hello Detective Hoffman," she said. Her voice never got much louder than a whisper now. She glanced up at him, not knowing that her every innocent gaze was destroying him.

"Hello Amanda," he said. He leaned in the doorway, waiting to see if she remembered that he had kidnapped her, knowing that due to shock and the drug he had injected her with would most likely eradicate her recent memory and make her unable to recall seeing him that night.

"I think I'd like to go home now," she said to Tapp. Her arms were limp at her sides, her eyes wet with fresh tears, the dark circle underneath them indicating crying was becoming routine for her.

"Alright," Tapp said, nodding with sympathy. Mark was relieved she didn't remember him, but at the same time, the guilt gnawed at him. Unable to endure the sight anymore, he nodded and left.

Once Amanda got home, she began to feel isolated in her small apartment. She'd never though it would feel too large, but now that she alienated her friends, it did indeed feel like too much space for her. She remembered the past, people coming over, some acquaintances from work, but most of them strangers, bringing the drugs and alcohol she needed to forget how much she hated everyone around her, including herself.

Now more than ever, she hated herself. What she had done was bad enough, but now that she was too terrified to get doped up, she remembered things she'd once been able to forget.  
At first, she remembered how her drug addiction started. She wanted to think that it wasn't her fault, that it was her ex-dealers fault. Then she wanted to blame the people she worked with for encouraging her behavior. Then she wanted to blame her father for being distant and doing the cruel, awful things to her that made her want to leave home in the first place.

But then she remembered that man's eyes. The man she killed. No matter who had gotten her hooked, what she had done to him was her own choice.

She cried again. She felt overcome with emotion constantly. All the hate and grief she'd repressed for so long emerged, and just when she thought it was over, she'd remember her father locking her in the closet for hours, the empty beer bottles laying everywhere, and his bloodshot eyes. Or she'd remember that innocent man's last expression before she stabbed him to death. And then it would start all over again.

Detective Tapp had given her a card for grief counseling. She'd kept it for a few days, staring at the name and numbers until she'd memorized it by heart. But she could never muster the courage to call it. Because it had been hard enough reliving everything at the police station. She didn't think she could do it again. But she kept it anyway. Knowing there was an option out there gave her some sense of security, even if she knew she'd never do it.

She took the card and stroked the edges of it absentmindedly. Maybe she would call today. Maybe she'd just call and hang up. It was something to do, it was a baby step towards seeking help. She didn't want to, but if she didn't, she was afraid of going back to her bad habits.

Her phone rang before she could make the call. Amanda let the answering machine get it. One of girls from work called, demanding to know why she hadn't come in for days. She added a brief "We miss you" that Amanda could sense was a lie, before the girl hung up. For the first time in days, Amanda smiled. SLittle did they know, she'd never see any of them again. For the sake of that man's life that she took, she had to change her life. Make his death not be in vain. She would get clean and that involved not surrounding herself with other junkies and by evading the bad influence of that horrid place, the place that had started her downward spiral.

Amanda looked at the card again and noticed a single drop of blood on it. She flinched, wondering if she was having hallucinations. Then she saw that she had simply gotten a paper cut from the card. She sighed. She'd been so overwhelmed with her thoughts, she hadn't even realized her finger was bleeding.

She walked into the bathroom to look for a band aid. When her search turned up nothing, she sat on the toilet lid and watched as the blood slid down her finger, down her hand, down to her wrist.  
She thought of her father again. How he had carved her mother's name into his flesh one night when he'd gotten drunk. She had only been six or seven. It was the first time she'd ever seen blood, except when she used to scrape her knees when skating or riding her bike. She'd been terrified, but watched anyway, full of concern for him, holding the phone in her hand in case she had to call for help. This was before she hated him. Back when she believed with all of her naïve heart that there was still the possibility of love and reconciliation.

She stood up and rinsed the blood off her hands in the sink. It reminded her of being in the hospital just a couple days ago. Everyone had been so concerned about her well-being and mental state, and all she'd cared about was rinsing the blood off of her hands. Once she'd gotten her chance, she scrubbed them raw.

This time Amanda didn't have as much blood to wash off, and the blood was her own. But it was cathartic nonetheless.

She opened the drawer to her medicine cabinet, and pulled out a razorblade.

_Let's see how much better I feel with a little more blood on my hands._


	8. Rebirth

**Timeline: A couple weeks after the last chapter**

**Rating: Pg-13**

**Chapter 7**

**Rebirth**

"**Do not be afraid, Amanda. Your life has just begun." –Jigsaw**

The group counselor told her that as time goes on, the nightmares fade.

_Life continues without us, Amanda. Eventually you'll sleep without seeing his face, and you'll live without feeling blame. But you have to give it time, and stop doing _this _to yourself._

The psychologist gestured towards Amanda's wrist, covered in rows of neat, straight cuts.

Amanda shook her head. She whispered something like an apology and bowed her head. The counselor sighed, reminding Amanda of a disapproving teacher, which made her feel like a child. No one understood how she needed the punishment, how she needed to feel the blood leaving her body. It cleared her head. It reminded her she was alive. And sometimes it gave her the high she had forsaken for this new life.

So eventually Amanda stopped going to counseling. As long as she was evading her old lifestyle and staying clean, she convinced herself she was still on the right track. And the counselor did say that the nightmares would end. All she had to do was wait.

And that might have been correct.

If the nightmare had truly been over.

* * *

John Kramer prided himself on many of his good qualities, such as his success, ingenuity, and resourcefulness. But one thing he knew he'd always lacked was patience. He always inwardly struggled with controlling his impatient tendencies, particularly when he saw the great potential in one of his newest projects. In his better days, that would mean an innovative building design. At the present, it meant a new pupil.

He sensed Mark's internal rebellion. Mark questioned his every action, and in addition to being irritating, it was also worrying. John knew that if he had enough time, he could definitely win Mark over. But he might not have the amount of time required. His sickness progressed and became more evident everyday. He needed a successor who wanted to be his successor, not someone who was there simply because he was being blackmailed.

He needed another accomplice. And then from Mark's own words, he found her.

"He helped me," Mark had said, quoting Amanda Young.

"That's exactly what she said?" John asked, his piercing eyes penetrating through Mark's calm expression.

"Yes. That's what she said when she was at the department. Can I go now?"

John dismissed him, now interested in a more pressing matter, the key to immortalizing his legacy. Amanda could be his true successor, unlike Mark, whose loyalty wavered with the test subject, eagerly obliging when the subject was a criminal and obviously resistant when he felt the subject was undeserving of the test. Mark could be depended on only because of the small box of information in his will that would incriminate Mark where he to try to rebel. But Amanda...could be something else entirely.

He stunk into Amanda's apartment rather easily and waited for her return.

When she opened the door, she didn't see John hidden in the dark shadows of her room. She sat on the bed, exhausted from the events that took place that day, ready to close her eyes and try to sleep, when his voice captured her attention and alerted her to his presence.

"Amanda, do not be afraid. Your life has just begun."

Her head gradually turned towards him Her expression was one of surprise, but not horror. In her wildest dreams, she never imagined this old man could be the instigator for all her grief and all of her rehabilitation.

"What are you doing in my room?" Amanda asked, her voice quivering with fear and uncertainty.

"How do you know my name?"

"There is no need for fear. I helped you. You said so yourself not long ago. I'm here to continue helping you. You and I both know you didn't get clean by yourself."

"You're..." she began to say, but then paused, momentarily dazed by the realization. She understood what he was saying, but couldn't find the words for a response. She felt an odd combination of fear and relief seeping into her. He was her kidnapper, yet he was her savior. She stood up, not sure if she should embrace him or run away and never return. She faced him, but mentally calculated how fast she could bolt out of her apartment.

"You're Jigsaw."

She couldn't make her face contort to express any emotion fully, but what he thought he saw in her eyes, glimmering for just a moment...hope. He nodded, causing her heart to skip a beat.

"There's no need to be frightened. You passed your test. All I'm here to do is offer you a choice."

"You're not going to hurt me?" Amanda asked.

"No," he said, as though it was an inconceivable notion. "It was never my intention to cause you harm. I only wanted to show you the value of life."

"I'm clean," Amanda said suddenly, attempting to defend herself. "I haven't gotten high since the night I escaped. I haven't done anything wrong. I've done what you said."

"I know!" he said, a smile cracking his serious expression. For the first time in their encounter he radiated a hint of emotion. Happiness. "You're clean! Sometimes it takes an unconventional method to help someone, as I've helped you."

"I am grateful to be alive. And I'm grateful to you. You saved me."

"Do you know how many others I could save...with your help?"

Amanda's eyes widened.

"What? Why do you want _me_ to help?"

"Because you've experienced the process first hand. You understand how it works. And because I can help you. I can help you stay clean. You are needed for a purpose far greater than anything you have imagined for yourself. If you are willing, you can help others as I have helped you. I know you could be a very valuable asset. You don't have to decide now. Think it over. "

Amanda sat on the edge of her bed and looked at the floor, trying to consider what she'd possibly have left to give up. She was all she had left. And she wasn't so sure she had rightful claim to that anymore. If anything, she owed everything, including her life, to him. And it was the only thing she had left to give anyway.

"I think..." she said, her voice weak and cracking, "...that you should really consider getting someone else to help you."

"I have someone else."

Amanda trembled.

"You're working with someone?"

"No, he's working_ for_ me. I have some information on him that he would not like me to reveal, so we have an arrangement. But he's insignificant. It's nothing compared to how you would be helping me. "

"You _did_ help me," she said in a coaxing voice, as though subconsciously she'd already surrendered and was now fighting on his side, trying to convince her conscience that this was the right choice. "I would still be a junkie if you hadn't taken me that night..."

"That's right. Amanda, this is your chance to change. This is the beginning of your new life. Your rebirth. I can continue helping you. You just have to let me."

She sat back down on the bed. Calmly, she asked a question that had been haunting her for weeks.

"If you want to help people...why didn't my cellmate have a chance to help himself?"

Jigsaw nodded his head. He'd anticipated this question.

"He was in a test before yours. He failed his test, and so he became a part of yours. Not everyone can be saved. But the ones that can...you, Amanda. You are proof that it _can_ work."

"All I have to do is say yes," Amanda murmured. John stood up and sat next to her, taking her hands into his. He looked at her with tired, yet hopeful eyes.

"All you have to do is trust me."

How many times in her life had someone actually wanted to help her? When did anyone ever give a damn about her, unless she was half naked and hanging off a pole? And even then, it was only her body anyone cared about. When was the last time someone cared about her mind or her soul? How many times had someone asked her to trust them, only to be later burned by that nativity? Yet...this was the first time in a long time she actually believed in someone's promise. Nativity or not, she trusted him, felt the sincerity in his words. The heat from his hands that held hers felt good. Safe. Everything about him made her feel that way.

"I already trust you," she said, as though sealing the deal, offering her life to the man who rightfully owned it anyway, the man who had saved her, whose name she didn't even properly know yet. He smiled. It had gone even better than he'd planned.

For some reason, Amanda had expected something official. In retrospect, it seemed silly. But at the time, she felt anxious, as though at any moment he would pull out a piece of paper and ask her to sign her name in blood on the dotted line.

_He's not the devil, and I'm not giving him my soul. He's my savior, and I'm giving him my life, a life that he rightfully owns._

But of course, nothing of the sort happened. John told her to pack her essentials and that he would wait. She didn't really know what qualified as "essentials". Since her apartment was pretty barren, it wouldn't take long to decide. She looked around her place and for the first time in awhile, evaluated her home. It looked like a stranger's residence. _This could be anyone's home,_ she realized. No photos anywhere, no decorations. Not even curtains. It could have been a motel room. _A cheap motel, _Amanda thought.

About fifteen minutes later, everything that Amanda thought was important was in her bags. Clothes, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and a few family photos she kept tucked in her nightstand. She looked at her phone and had the nearly irresistible urge to call someone. Anyone. But the only person who gave a crap about her was already in her apartment. No, she wanted to call for help. Someone to tell her not to do this. To run away with her bags, away from her savior. He may have been her redeemer, but that didn't mean he would remain that way. He was dangerous. He'd put her in a situation where she'd had to savagely rip a man apart to survive.

She found herself standing in front of the door to the hallway. She could walk out right now. She could leave him and start all over somewhere else. She was clean now.

But would she stay that way? Or would she revert back to her old self?

_No, I still need him, _she thought. _He'll keep me clean. He'll guide me. He's already saved me once- that proves he really cares about me._

"I'm ready," Amanda said, looking at John but speaking more to herself than to him. "I'm ready for my life to truly begin."

* * *

Mark's reaction was, as anticipated, intense.

"You did what?" he growled, clinching both of his fists in an effort to control his rage. He felt like taking a swing at the old man, sickly or not.

"I brought someone here to help us," John repeated calmly. "She needs us as much as we need her. Maybe more. My decision is final. There's no need to protest. Everything is already arranged."

"If I'd known others were going to be involved..."

"You would have done nothing differently," John stated. "Our situation has not changed. I still have

information about you and what you've done."

"How could I possibly forget that? You remind me every time I see you!" Mark all but yelled.

"Just keeping you focused, Mark. Which reminds me..." John walked over to one of the various tables in the room. He handed Mark a manilla folder crammed with papers.

"The doctor," Mark said, glancing at one of the photos inside. "Let me guess, he's next?"

"Yes. Everything is almost ready."

"Dr. Gordon. Isn't he your physician?" Mark asked, glancing up from the folder to look John in the eyes. John's expression grew cold, his features hardened at Mark's mention of the name.

"That's correct, though, irrelevant."

"It's not irrelevant that you're still sick, and that he's the man who failed to make you better."

"Have you been spying on me, Mark?" He grinned. "I'm flattered, but it's really not necessary. If there's anything you need to know, you only need to simply ask me."

"Not spying. Investigating. Call it curiosity. And the fact that your sick is glaringly obvious anyway. I don't know why you didn't tell me before now."

"How touching," John said in mock flattery. "You care."

Mark rolled his eyes.

"I only care about when I'm getting out of this. I'm guessing that if your testing this doctor, he didn't do a very good job."

"His lack of concern for his patients is...regrettable. But that's not why he's being tested."

"Yeah, he doesn't value his life, got it," Mark said, not wanting to go through that argument again. John and Mark had very different ideas as to what constituted a worthy cause of being tested. Mark couldn't help but notice they'd been testing people that Mark suspected John selected with Mark's approval in mind. Criminals. Prostitutes, druggies, etc. Out of the dozen people they'd tested, most of them had a criminal background. _And most of them probably won't be missed,_ Mark mused.

But now Mark was getting involved in a test where the subject was squeaky clean. A doctor. John's doctor. It seemed awfully personal, and thus, a biased decision based on vengeance. But Mark stayed silent. There was no point in bringing this up. Besides, he was still fuming over the arrival of this new assistant. It was yet another person who could turn on him and incriminate him for helping Jigsaw. This was getting more and more risky, and Mark didn't like that he had no control.

"I trust you can obtain Dr. Gordon by yourself?"

_Obtain._ _Like he's an object._ The word rubbed Mark the wrong way. An alarm went off inside him. There was something very, very _wrong _about John. He was right about many things, about the injustice of the law, about the way so many people take their lives for granted, but inside, Mark detected a spark of insanity inside of him. It was subtle, and that was perhaps why he was able to ignore it most of the time but sometimes it just struck Mark that he was obeying the commands of a mad man. And it chilled him to the bone.

"Yes," Mark said. "I can."

"Good. Now go do it."


	9. Reunion

**Timeline: The next day (aka, during Saw and a little before and after)**

**Rating: Pg-13**

**Chapter 8**

**Reunion**

"**You will give me every cell in your body..." -Jigsaw**

_Very rock star, _he'd said only hours ago. His innocence made her want to cry. This wasn't what she'd had in mind at all. He was a seemingly sweet guy. And clean, as far as she knew. No needle marks that she could see.

_Very rock star. Your hair._

It had been an impulsive action. All John's talk of "rebirth" made her want to change her exterior to match the internal change. In an impulsive moment, she chopped off a great deal of her hair and dyed it black. She didn't like the outcome very much, but she didn't really care all that much either after it was over. She looked different, and that's all she wanted. She wasn't sure what look she was going for because she wasn't sure what this new life was going to be like. Wasn't sure who she was going to become. But she certainly wasn't going for "rock star".

_I'm going to kidnap him and who knows what John is going to do to him, _she thought. _I don't know him. I don't know anything about him. What if he doesn't deserve this?_

She felt very uncomfortable. Her fingers twitched like she was tweaking for another hit. But the withdrawals were gone now. The psychical ones, anyway. The psychological ones would never leave, haunting her for the rest of her life.

_I don't need it, _she reminded herself. _All I need is to focus on my mission._

She trembled. It was time. Adam stumbled around, using his camera as a source of light. But of course, it only gave him brief moments of sight. She had more than enough time to leap out from the darkness and drug him. And after the hesitation passed, she did it in one swift motion. It was over quickly. It had been easy. Far too easy. Somehow that was worse than if it had been a challenge. She felt horrible. That horror was only slightly mitigated by the knowledge that her savior would be more that pleased.

* * *

Everything was set. The doctor shackled on one end of the room, Adam, whom she'd shackled herself, was on the other, and John sprawled out in a pool of fake blood between them. She glanced at them all, fear and adrenaline running through her veins, not knowing who to root for or whose side she was even on.

She turned off the lights and slammed the door shut. After it closed, she walked down the hall and once she reached the end of it, she collapsed against one of the walls in sobs she tried to muffle with both hands. She wanted to run away. Hadn't that always been her solution though? And not once had it ever solved anything. It was always a temporary solution, like putting a band aid made for a paper cut onto someone who was bleeding out from fatal wounds.

She crumpled up into a ball and continued weeping. The guilt she'd repressed came out through her tears. Now that John couldn't see watch her, she felt less of a need to control herself, not that she could contain herself much longer even if she wanted too. She cried and when she was incapable of more tears, she just remained there for hours, void of all emotion, limp like a rag doll, waiting for either man to come crawling out of the bathroom at any moment.

But before anyone escaped, Zep came storming through the hallway. Amanda was surprised. _Their time is already up?_ Zep passed by her, and she remained unnoticed, not that it really mattered anyway. She knew that this confrontation wouldn't end well. She got up to leave before she had to hear the screams or gunshots, but wound up hearing both in her mind, repeating over and over, saturating her consciousness with an all consuming guilt that was becoming all too familiar.

* * *

"What happened down there?" Amanda asked later. They were both sitting down, exhausted from their work and over 48 hours of endless activity with not even a brief respite. Yet she didn't dare ask for a moment of rest.

"They failed."

"All of them?" she asked, her eyes alert with surprise.

"Yes. All of them," John said with his usual expressionless face.

"They're all dead," she murmured.

"Big surprise," she heard a foreign, yet strangely familiar voice say. Her head darted towards the origin of the sound, and her surprise intensified when she realized the identity of John's other assistant.

Her surprise was rivaled only by his own. His hand immediately clutched the first thing within reach as he attempted to guise his shock and horror at the sudden revelation. The chair in his grasp tipped slightly as his knuckles turned white, evidence of the anger forming in Mark.

"Amanda," he said calmly, his cool voice and expression a complete contrast to his tense body language.

"Mark!" she said, unable to mask her reaction as well as he did. She couldn't stop staring at him. Not just the fact that his presence shocked her, paralyzing her so that she couldn't move, not that she had any desire to. But also because splattered all over his white shirt was a dark crimson liquid, seemingly still wet, that could only mean one thing. If his appearance said nothing, his clothing said everything only too clearly.

"I suppose introductions are unnecessary," John said suddenly, after a short silence. He rose from his chair with grace, seemingly fine, as though the exhaustion from his sickness was something he could merely cast off from time to time when he pleased.

"Mark, you're dismissed for tonight. You're free to leave whenever you like."

And with that closing statement, he left the two of them, still stunned, alone. As the door shut behind him, Mark's pressure on the chair made it fall over. Amanda flinched as it clanged on the ground.

"What are you doing here?" Mark said. He still remained at the other end of the room, and made no attempt to draw closer to her. The paralysis of surprise had taken them both.

"I could ask you the same thing," Amanda said when she came to her senses a little. She didn't want to reveal anything to him. Already it was beginning to dawn on her that he assisted in her capture and test. Mixed feelings stirred within her. He had been her savior. But at the same time, he was a liar. He pretended to be sympathetic and oblivious as she told her story again and again to the police, even though he could have probably told it better than her. He had lied out of necessity of course, but she felt the unease of mistrust anyway.

"Goddamn it," Mark said. He sighed and looked away. He didn't mean to sound quite so harsh, but he had a lot of rage within him and no outlet.

"John told me about you," Amanda said. "Told me enough anyway. He has some dirt on you that would get you in trouble. A very noble cause for helping us. Well, soon we won't be needing you anymore because I'm here."

"Is that so?" Mark said, slightly amused at her confidence. "I highly doubt that."

Amanda got out of her seat and approached him, leaning right into his face, doing her best to appear intimidating to the man who clearly had a height advantage over her. She glared straight into his eyes.

"I know you're not helping because you want to. You're doing this for selfish reasons. You're just like every other man I've met. You don't care about anyone but yourself. You didn't put me or anyone else in a trap to help. You did it so you could keep fooling everyone into believing you're a good person. Well you know what, detective? You don't fool me."

"I don't care what you think, Amanda. Just do me a favor and make sure you don't get in my way."

Amanda didn't respond. "I'll do whatever John needs me to do. I wouldn't interfere with his plans just to get back at you."

"You really believe in his ridiculous rantings?" Mark said. He took a step back and shook his head. "The man is insane."

"He helped me get clean," she replied, her voice escalating with her emotion. "That may not mean anything to you, but it means everything to me. He saved my life."

"And do you know how many other lives he's ended? Saving one person doesn't counteract all the murders."

"They didn't cherish their lives enough. But when someone does pass a test, it changes their perspective-"

"Wake up, Amanda. You're the only one who survived, and you'll probably be the only one. What he does is murder. You really want to be a part of this?"

"Yes," she said softly. "I do. But you've got it wrong. It's not murder. It's rehabilitation. It can work. And I can help, I can-"

"You're just as delusional as him," Mark said. Amanda grew silent. Nothing more needed to be said. It was clear that they were on opposite sides, despite the fact that they were working together. Mark stared at Amanda, wishing he could get inside her mind for just a moment and understand why she felt so overwhelming attached to John and his warped ideals. Her eyes shown with naive eagerness and fierce loyalty, the eyes of someone who hadn't witnessed repeated acts of violence and death. He was used to spending all his time around cops and victims, he almost forgot what that kind of pureness looked like.

She was in for so much pain.

"Amanda, do yourself a favor and get out now. Go back to your life. You can stay clean without resorting to..._this_," he said, gesturing around to the dirty, dim warehouse stuffed with blueprints designing deathtraps, tools for their execution, and an atmosphere of isolation and danger. His face looked sad and sincere, his voice nearly pleading.

But Amanda just shook her head.

"I'm staying. Good-night, Detective Hoffman," she said as she turned to leave.

"Mark," he said, instinctively correcting her. He'd told her to call him Mark when they first met. He saw no reason to resort to formality now, even if they did vastly disagree with each other.

She turned her head back to glance at him.

"Good-night, Detective," she said, exiting the room with him still staring at her. After she'd shut the door, he sighed and collapsed into a nearby chair. He'd been so relieved when she'd escaped. Nervous, but grateful when he'd seen her at the police station giving her testimony. And now the sight of her filled him with guilt and despair. Even the good that he did manage to do while assisting the Jigsaw killer was ruined by John in the end. He was also frustrated because he'd wanted to despise this accomplice as much as John, and yet he couldn't bring himself to do so. She was a victim. Trapped in John's games in her own way, in her own delusional ideas, perhaps even more trapped than him.


	10. Mercy

**Timeline: Three days later**

**Rating: Pg-13 for violence**

**Chapter 9**

**Mercy**

"**Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy." - Matthew 5:7**

"You mean he's still alive?" Amanda asked with seemingly mild curiosity. One of her eyebrows raised slightly, but she managed to repress her true emotion quite well, coming across as mildly curious rather than seething. They were discussing the fate of Adam, a victim Mark suspected she'd seemed especially affected by.

"Yes," Mark said. "John isn't going to let him go. His test is over. Even if Adam does cut his foot off, the door has been locked now because he didn't do it within the time limit."

Mark paused.

"Adam is still waiting on Dr. Gordon. He's going to die down there. Does John still seem noble and caring now? Or do you finally see that he's an insane murderer?"

Amanda didn't respond. She looked at Mark without emotion. Her face reminded him of a mannequin or doll. A void replaced the usual vitality in her eyes.

"John has his reasons. I may not understand them completely, but he knows what he's doing. I have to trust him if I am to follow him. What he does is not murder, it's rehabilitation. It's-"

On and on she rambled, repeating the words Mark recognized as John's exact ramblings. She spoke like someone under hypnosis and with the accuracy of a tape recorder. He held up his hand as if to stop her in her tracks, but she just kept talking.

"Amanda," he said at last, interrupting her. "I get it. You can stop now."

"Do you finally see now?" she said, breaking out of her monotone and sounding a little eager.

"I understand that you've been brainwashed by a madman," Mark said. Amanda scowled.

"John's coming soon. You might want to stop talking like that."

"He knows exactly how I feel. And I always say whatever the hell I want to," Mark said, shrugging and smirking.

Amanda repressed the urge to smile at his mischievous expression, so much like a rebellious bad boy, but lost the urge when John entered the room.

"Yes, Mark, we can always count on you to be honest and clear about your thoughts," he said.

"What are we doing tonight?" Amanda asked, her eyes shifting over to Mark as though she was really asking, _Why did we need him here?_

"Mark helped me bring our next test subject earlier. Everything is already set up. I want you to watch," he said, implying both of them but specifically staring at Amanda as he spoke. She nodded. She didn't particularly like that he didn't ask her to help with this test, but she said nothing. She merely followed. John led them through a narrow corridor and opened the door to a small room that could have been a closet. There was a glass window that revealed a slightly disoriented man stumbling around in a dim lit room. Amanda sat next to the window and watched as the man lifted up the tape recorder and pressed pay.

"Hello, Thomas," the tape began. Thomas groaned and looked away.

"I want to play a game. You're no stranger to games, are you? You play games all the time, whether it's getting intoxicated and gambling your money away, or playing games with others feelings, you know how to put it all on the table and walk away empty and apathetic until you can play again. Whether gambling is truly an addiction that runs in your family like a genetic disease, or if it is just something you are drawn to because it gives you excitement in your otherwise mundane life, is not of significance. You have proven nothing really matters to you, but now you will realize the value of one thing today. Tonight you will gamble for the ultimate prize…your life.

You must strap this collar on your neck before you will be able to make your choice. Once you have, three chains will simultaneously fall in front of you, just within reach. You must grab one and yank it down to release the key to your freedom.

The left chain will cause you a considerable amount of pain, irreversible damage, but you will live, however deformed that may be.

Another chain will give you the chance to walk away unharmed in anyway.

However, the other chain will lead to certain death.

Will you bet it all for a chance to walk away unscathed? Or will you fold, follow the safe route, taking comfort in the fact that you will survive, albeit deformed for the rest of your life?

The choice is yours."

Amanda shuddered as the tape ended. She'd seen the gallows in the warehouse, handcrafted in a beautiful dark shade of pine. She had known it would someday be used to rehabilitate someone. Yet somehow seeing it in use felt strange to her.

_He has a chance, _she thought. _Of course he does; they all do. _She quickly corrected herself. But he had a very easy chance. All he had to do was pull the left chain if he wanted to live. But he was a gambling addict. Would he be able to pass up the greatest gamble he'd ever been faced with? The gamble for his life.

She stared in anticipation, whereas Mark, right beside her, looked on with tired, weary eyes, already knowing what the outcome would be. He glanced over and saw the uncertainty in Amanda's face. It was still hard for him to accept how she could be so naive as to not know how this would surely end. Did she have no concept of human behavior?

"He's not going to pick the left chain," Mark whispered in her ear like a secret, even though John had left the room and was far out of hearing range. The sound of his whisper sent a shiver through her, distracting her momentarily from the game she was otherwise absorbed in.

"You don't know that," she said, matching his whisper with her own, and as usual, objecting to Mark's every statement with fierceness.

"Oh, but I do. You witness enough of these games, and you'll know how they're going to play out," he said, keeping his voice low and strangely arousing considering the situation they were in and the subject of discussion.

"That would be cheating," Amanda hissed back, annoyed with his arguing and distractions, and how he was making her feel when she was trying to concentrate. She continued watching Thomas, mentally urging him to pick the left chain.

"I don't make the rules," Mark said as Thomas made his choice. Without further hesitation, he pulled on the right chain, and felt the floor go out from underneath him. The collar around his neck tightened, and he was certain he'd choke to death in seconds. He tried to scream but couldn't. The collar blocked any sound he tried to emit. He swung back and forth, and yanked on his collar, which consequently tugged on the chain.

Much to Amanda's surprise, one of the rusty chain links broke, and he fell to the floor underneath.

"What the hell?" Amanda said in disbelief. She jolted backward, stunned by what happened. Mark remained where he was, unaffected and calm.

"Did that chain just break?" Amanda said. She looked at Mark as if to confirm what she had just witnessed wasn't the product of her imagination."Does that mean Thomas made the right choice? Or does that mean...Did the trap screwed up?" Amanda wondered out loud.

She saw Thomas stumbling around, in shock, but sporting a big grin. She couldn't hear him very well, but he shouted "I beat that motherfucker! I won!" and laughed. He looked around, and tried to find a way out. Moments later, she spotted the brown slithering reptile crawling towards him. Amanda wasn't familiar with the different breeds of snake, but she was certain it was nothing she'd ever seen before. Not a common garden snake by any means. Thomas stepped on it, and it stuck him so fast he felt the pain shooting through his leg before he could even glance down. As he collapsed onto the floor, he fell on another snake that struck him in the chest.

Amanda recoiled in horror at the pitiful sight of the arrogant jerk transformed into a humble, vulnerable human being.

Only that transformation came too late.

Amanda looked away, unable to continue watching Thomas's suffering. Mark stopped looking at the game and watched Amanda's own agony.

"Do you see now, Amanda? Do you understand that it's not about rehabilitation? Thomas thought he'd survived. Now why would John design the trap that way? Why give him a moment of hope, to think he'd survived, and then take it all away? Why submit him to a prolonged torture instead of just making his death quick?"

Amanda started crying. Thomas's screams overwhelmed the sound of her muffled sobs. Finally the sound died along with him, but every minute of his loud agony seemed like hours. As the silence returned, Amanda answered Mark's question, once again repeating John's words like a religious fanatic's mantra, a preacher's scriptures.

"I have to trust him if I am to follow him. What he does is not murder, it's rehabilitation."

"He doesn't show any mercy to his victims. He's a sadistic man," Mark huffed. He stood up. "I've done what John asked me to. If he needs something else, he'll have to wait till tomorrow. I'm leaving. If you were smart, you'd leave too, forever, before he hurts you or kills you or...worse."

Amanda calmed down enough to ask, "What could be worse?"

Mark looked at Amanda, his heart full of disgust at her misplaced loyalty, but also an immense amount of pity. She looked so pathetic, torn between her fragmented sense of morality and compassion, and her devotion to an insane madman who just happened to help her change her life for the better. But Mark knew John could just as easily destroy what he had created.

"What could be worse?" Amanda asked again. Mark broke eye contact from her for a moment and looked over at the corpse not fifteen feet away from them. He glanced back at Amanda as if the answer should be obvious.

"You could end up becoming just like him."

* * *

Amanda tried not to think that what she was doing was a result of Mark's words. Mercy. It was a concept she'd tried to avoid since her rebirth. Was there a place for it in this new life? Had she been shown mercy in her previous life, with an abusive father and absent mother, violent ex-boyfriends, and harsh drug dealers who'd taken advantage of her when she'd needed a little longer to pay up? No. Why should she expect this new life to be filled with mercy? Mercy was a foreign concept, something to be dreamed about but never obtained.

Yet her compassion lingered. Although rarely the recipient of mercy, she still had a soul that begged for her to sometimes take pity on another for their suffering. There was no way to fully extinguish that from her heart.

So tonight she tiptoed through the dark hallways, occasionally stopping when the sound of her own breathing or footsteps would startle her. She felt certain that someone was watching her, yet whenever she redirected her flashlight and looked for the presence of someone, she always discovered that she was alone.

She opened the door to the bathroom. She crept in and crouched next to Adam. She didn't want to check his pulse for fear that if he was alive, he might wake up and attack her, so she slipped her finger under his nose to see if he was still breathing. To her chagrin, she felt him exhale, and she couldn't just back out now.

Her hands clinched the plastic wrap and stretched it tight before pulling it against Adam's face. She increased her pressure as Adam began to fight back. There was a slight struggle, but he was too weak from lack of nourishment and disorientation to put up a worthy fight. And perhaps, Amanda later realized, a lack of desire to live. At some point, he must have just given up and been waiting for his death sentence to finally end.

She sobbed when it was over. His lack of screaming and struggle didn't lessen the horror at what she had done. She had become a murderer. Again. But he would have died anyway, even if she had not interfered and shortened his period of suffering.

_Did I do the right thing?_

Amanda knew she had to return soon before John became suspicious of her absence, but for just a few moments, she laid on the disgusting floor in a semi-disoriented state, tired from the struggle and longing for the answer to her nagging question. An answer she suspected she might never find.


	11. See What I See

**Timeline: A couple months after the last chapter**

**Rating: Pg-13 for language**

**Chapter 10**

**See What I See**

"**We both know the sort of person you are. The sort of person who guns down an unarmed suspect. The sort of person who plants evidence in order to obtain a conviction. The sort of person whose wife leaves him and whose son hates him." –John [talking to Eric], Saw II**

"What do you want?" Mark asked.

"Can't an old friend just stop by to say hi?" Art Blanc asked. He stuck both hands in his pockets and tilted his head. God, the guy was so slick sometimes; it left a sick feeling inside of Mark.

"Yeah," Mark said, "_If_ you were an old friend. And you're not. Now excuse me, I have to leave."

"What's the rush?" Art asked, shamelessly prying. Mark wanted to grant suspension-without-pay to whoever allowed this guy to walk through the door, but knowing Art, he'd probably snuck or conned his way in. _It wouldn't have been a challenge for him._

"I just want to ask a few questions, that's all."

"About Officer Rigg? The charges were dropped. There's nothing more to discuss. It's over."

"No, no, no, no…" Art said, making a slight clicking noise with his tongue at the end. He shifted his posture to stand up slightly straighter.

"I wanted to talk to you about Officer Matthews."

"I have nothing to say to you. Stop sniffing around here for more acquittal cases."

Art shrugged, seemingly unaffected. This aggravated Mark even more.

"It makes you look desperate for work. Pathetic, actually. I've seen ambulance chasers with more tact than you."

"You know," Art said, dismissing Mark's insult completely, not missing an ounce of his nonchalance, "I'm really surprised you'd still cover for him even after it's fairly obvious to everyone that he planted evidence and contaminated crime scenes."

Art leaned in close to Mark's face, intentionally invading his personal space to make a point and inspire intimidation.

"And that made it _so _easy to get Seth out of jail. All I had to do was figure out a way to prove what I already knew was going on. Your department is as crooked as any other form of organized crime."

He paused long enough to stroll over to Hoffman's bookcase and gaze at the photograph of Angelina. Mark innately wanted to pull it off the shelf and smack him across the face for daring to even glance at his precious sister.

"Here's the part that strikes me as funny. You know, if you'd just left things alone, if you'd just tried to convict him with what you had, we probably could have settled for ten years. And with no technicality, Seth would still be in jail right now."

After a long pause in which he absorbed the words Art had just taunted him with, he thought about the implications of what he was saying, and for a moment, it did seem ironically just. By trying to ensure Seth would get behind bars by cheating the rules, he'd actually caused an early release. He tried to imagine an alternate future where he'd fought the urge to coax Eric into planting evidence, and he could imagine it, but it seemed so surreal. Although he did realize one key difference in both scenarios.

"He'd still be alive though," Mark said.

"Excuse me?"

"I said he'd still be alive. Jigsaw wouldn't have gotten to him if he was in jail."

"Yeah," Art said slowly, his eyes shifty with suspicion. "I suppose you're right. I guess the universe has its own system of justice."

Mark said nothing, but his thoughtful gaze may have implied too much. An extended silence was born from that last statement, neither of them able to further comment on the hypothetical scenario.

"I'll be keeping in touch with you and your department," Art said. This time he swung the door open and was already one foot out before he felt compelled to add one last thought. He nodded to the bulletin board covered in articles, smiled, and said half-jokingly, "You know this Jigsaw guy. I bet I could get him off with an insanity plea. He'd do 10 years tops."

"Get out of here," Mark said, waving him away, finally completely irritated with his presence. Art shook his head, muttered "Take a joke!" under his breath, and slipped out just as quietly and quickly as he'd snuck in.

While settling into his chair, he happened to glance out the window and notice Art flirting with Kerry. She squirmed uncomfortably as he leaned in closer and closer to her face. She muttered something and suddenly Eric appeared. One minute they were speaking, and the next, Eric was making threatening gestures and getting in Art's face.

"Easy, big boy. Wouldn't want to get in any more trouble, would we?" he heard Art say.

Mark instinctively bolted for the door and motioned for Eric.

"Eric, get in here now!"

"Ah-oh, Daddy's mad," Art said with a plastered smirk. He straightened his tie, more as a reflex than a necessity, and then he strutted out.

"Remember, I'll be in touch," he chanted playfully. Once Mark shut the door, Eric didn't hide his displeasure at being singled out.

"I know how to handle myself. I wasn't going to do anything."

"Oh, really? Cause that's not what it looked like to me."

"I can take care of myself!"

"No, that's the problem! You _don't _know how to take care of yourself! That's why you keep getting in trouble with the IA-"

"This has nothing to do with that!" he yelled.

"Then what is it?" Mark said.

Eric shook his head. He turned away, as though the shame was so great that he couldn't bear to look Mark in the eyes. Eric's composure crumpled, his abrupt anger turning into hopelessness right before Mark's eyes.

"Eric, what is it?" Mark said, nervous now. What did Internal Affairs have on him that would cause _this_ kind of reaction?

"She wants a divorce," he said in the most casual way he could manage. The usual emotion one would associate with such a personal confession was absent. His voice sounded as though he was only the messenger of this terrible news, not the recipient, but his eyes told a different story. They showed a night of restlessness and tears, and probably lots of alcohol as well. Now that Mark paid some attention to Eric's appearance, he noticed that Eric hadn't changed since yesterday. Not that unusual for a detective, but he remembered that yesterday he'd noticed the same thing.

He thought it would be especially insensitive to mention such a thing as hygiene at a moment like this, so he refrained from doing so, although the result was an absolutely unkempt and pitiful looking Eric. He looked out the window, his eyes focused only on Kerry, the instigator of Eric's marital downfall.

"She found out about you and Kerry, and she kicked you out, didn't she? "

Eric nodded, indicating yes on both accounts.

"God, you're a complete mess. And a very high maintenance friend, I might add," he said. Eric didn't move. Mark felt uneasiness creeping into him. It was worse than when Eric was breaking things and throwing them across the room. The stillness, the void expression of his face haunted Mark. They remained silent, Eric trapped in his mental torture and Mark wary of saying the wrong thing.

At last, Eric broke the silence.

"You know Kerry was the one who…she's the one who came onto me," he said, as though the thought was unbelievable. Mark felt a little surprised. In his mind, he'd categorized Eric as the initiator. He had all the aggression in contrast to her passivity. But then again, he knew how manipulative Kerry could be when she wanted something. With those looks and her brain, it was no wonder that Eric had fallen hard for her.

"I know that doesn't matter now, but…Mark, I think I love her," he said it as though it were the worst thing in the world, as though the mere thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Despite everything, I really do. But she feels so distant from me now; it's like we're strangers. And Daniel hates her. He blames her for everything that happened, never mind that his mom is a…well, you can't exactly tell your son that his mom is a fucking bitch who-"

"But you do anyways," Mark interrupted, with a brief smirk.

"Yeah, I do," he said, managing a faint smile that was mostly for show. "I think he hates me. His Mom is filing for sole custody, and you know how I feel about that. My father was never around after my parents seperated. And as it is, I barely see Daniel now."

Mark nodded. "We'll figure something out. He just needs time to adjust. "

Eric nodded, not really convinced. But hearing his friend's confidence that everything would work out soothed his anxiety.

"Mark, how do you stand it? People coming to you all the time with their problems?"

Mark laughed.

"Because no one comes to me with as many problems as you do. Good thing too, because besides dealing with your crises, I still have a department to run."

Mark glanced at his watch and noted the time. He didn't have much left before he would need to leave. John had called him earlier and told him to stop by after work. He stood from the chair and nodded towards the door.

"If there is nothing else, I have to…pursue some outside interests. Now _please_, find some place to take a bath, even if you have to come over to my place."

"Is that an invitation?" Eric said.

"You're joking, right?" Mark asked.

"…I need a place to stay. Two days, tops."

"Where have you been staying?"Mark suddenly realized.

"Motel."

"Why not with Kerry?"

"It's complicated._ Please_, Mark."

Mark contemplated this. It was an unexpected circumstance, and he hadn't planned on this obstacle. But to say no to Eric would be unlike him, and he didn't want to generate any extra suspicion if he could help it. Eric was so pitiful looking as well, and the 'please' just intensified it.

"Of course you can stay with me. You still have that spare key. I have to go."

"See you tonight!" Eric said.

_No, I'm quite certain you won't,_ he thought, as he left a tired, depressed Eric behind him.

* * *

"Open the folder."

John's whisper was more demanding than a scream. Hoffman complied with Jigsaw's request.

"Look at the pictures. Tell me what they all have in common."

"I don't like this game, John. Just tell me what I'm looking for."

"The connection," he said, his eyes widening with intensity as though he was not only trying to convey to Mark the meaning of his words, but to emphasize their significance. He started coughing then, and Mark looked at him with concern, placing a hand on his back.

"Are you okay?" Mark asked. At first, he didn't care at all for the old man. But Amanda's complete devotion and sympathy for John's illness had rubbed off on Mark…slightly. Although he wouldn't run around and fetch him things and volunteer to do errands for him like she did, occasionally he did express concern for John, whom he felt a combination of hatred and admiration towards.

"My body is not of importance, Mark. Just focus on your task," he said.

Mark realized the object of this mind game wasn't so much as finding the connection as it was learning _how_ to find the connection. Jigsaw could easily just tell him instead of flooding his mind with questions John already knew the answers to. John was playing teacher, and Mark had willingly or unwillingly been cast the role of student. John was thinking ahead because that was just his way. It seemed that now he was already thinking about who would take his place when he died. Mark realized that John saw training him as the most important thing in his life, rivaled only perhaps by his similar training of Amanda. It made Mark feel a little manipulated, but also, in the deepest, darkest part of his heart, a little proud as well, that Jigsaw saw him as fit to carry on his legacy. He even expected it of him. They had come such a long way from John staring him in the face while a gun pointed at his head, making him reanalyze everything he'd ever thought about, even his own morality.

But what was the answer to his question?

"I understand what you are trying to do, but I simply don't know. I only recognize a few of these people. That one girl is a prostitute; she was brought into our station and charged. And that guy is a drug dealer."

He froze when he came to Amanda's picture. A feeling of anger caused his heart to pound wildly in his chest. He wasn't exactly sure why. He was still a little ticked off at her because earlier that day, they had another argument about him wanting her to leave, but also because he felt like John was now toying around with him, perhaps tricking him by giving him an unsolvable puzzle as an experiment to see how he'd react.

Mark looked through the rest of the pictures. He recognized no one else until the last picture. Daniel Matthews.

"That's Daniel. Eric's son. How is he involved in this?"

"That's part of the puzzle, Mark," he said, "I can't tell you. I can only guide you to the right answers."

_Of course, he won't tell me. He'd rather mess with my head all day until I don't know up from down, or right from wrong. _

Mark felt a little ashamed that he had no idea what he was looking for.

"Is the connection me? I know most of these people. Amanda, Daniel, and then a bunch of criminals."

"Ah! Now you are truly seeing what you were meant to see, but you are still blinded by your emotions. You see 'a bunch of criminals,' yet you separate Amanda and Daniel because you see them differently."

"Oh, yeah," he murmured, realization sinking it. "Daniel just got in trouble recently, and Amanda has a drug record from a couple years ago. I just forgot because…well, she's more than just a criminal. She's…" Mark stopped, unable to articulate exactly what he thought of her and why she was different.

"She's rehabilitated," John suggested as a possible end to Mark's statement.

"Right," Mark said quickly, not wanting to finish that sentence. Defining what he thought of Amanda and explaining why he no longer mentally categorized her with people he would consider despicable or lower than him was something he felt he couldn't, or shouldn't do. Not without more reprimand from John about "detaching emotionally".

"So the connection is that they are all criminals. All of them are connected to me."

"And…?"

"And the arresting officer…and Eric, because that's his son. Wait," Mark said, as he flipped through and looked through the pictures once more. "Eric _was _the arresting officer. Eric is the connection."

"That's it. Very good."

"That's it?"

John gave him an annoyed look. It seemed to Mark as though he were saying, _What were you expecting, a gold star? Praise doesn't come with this line of work._

Mark inwardly scolded himself. He thought that was it until John sighed.

"I suppose I should tell you now, before Amanda does."

"Tell me what?"

"The people in these pictures are all our new test subjects. And they are all playing a role in a game for Detective Matthews."

"What!" Mark exclaimed. John repeated himself as though Mark didn't hear, although it was clear to Jigsaw that Mark simply didn't want to understand.

"Why?" Mark said. "Why Eric?"

"Mark," John said, a warning in his tone, "I understand you're upset-"

"No! How could you even think this? Eric…he isn't the kind of person we test-"

"Oh, really?" John said. His eyes grew wide again, as a subtle anger rose to the surface. "So tell me, what kind of people do _we _test?"

Mark was silent, for he feared he'd now revealed too much. He'd forgotten that although he was starting to gain some of John's trust, he was still being blackmailed, and he was still subordinate to John's will. He had no control in this situation. This was not his choice. Still, he was angered. He could accept the criminals being in a game. They deserved it, because the criminal justice system had failed in containing or rehabilitating him. But Eric…well, Eric was just like him. There wasn't much of a difference to them in Mark's mind.

"You might as well be testing me," Hoffman said. "Is that all I'm worth? I need to know. Am I helping you because you think I could continue to do this once you're…gone? Or am I merely the brute strength you and Amanda need until your games are over?"

"Oh no," John said, a smirk forming on his face. "No, the games are never over. This is not temporary. This is something far greater than that. A philosophy that will continue after I have passed away." The eyes that looked straight at Mark seemed to look through him now, as though he were having a vision of the future, a future in which he was gone but glorified. As Mark looked around the dingy and rusted warehouse, he could not share his vision. On the contrary, he felt quite outside of it.

"The philosophy of Jigsaw," Mark said, mocking.

"Yes," John said, understanding Mark's sarcasm and ignoring it anyway. "A philosophy I hope Amanda _and you _will continue after I am gone."

Mark rolled his eyes. He supposed that was the equivalent to receiving a gold star in this morbid class. It was John's way of assuring him he was not a pawn, or something to be discarded when convenient. Yet there was still one thing on his mind that bothered him.

"You never explained why Eric is being tested." Mark pointed out. "If Amanda and I are ever going to understand your work and _imitate_ it," he said, cringing at the word because it reminded him of their first encounter, when John had told him his work was inferior. "…Then the most important thing we need to know is how you choose your victims. I understand they are people who don't appreciate their lives, but it just seems that criminals are more likely to not appreciate their lives more, and they also endanger society, so it makes more sense to me that-"

"You are thinking with the mindset that we are punishing people. We are testing them, giving them enlightenment. The reason Eric was selected," John said as though he'd had no say in the matter, as though he was receiving orders from some omnipotent being, "Well, I think you know his _situation,_ and I don't feel the need to remind you of the mess he's made of his life. I believe you know it better than I do. Are you asking me this question because you truly want to know, or are you asking me because you are acquaintances with him and you wonder if I am testing your loyalty to me?"

Mark thought about it for a moment.

"_Are_ you testing my loyalty?"

"No. I have no doubt I have that, either by your own conscience or your fear of ruining your career as an officer. And those are the only two things you have left, besides…"

_Amanda_. The thought came to him immediately, a knee-jerk reflex. His heart beat a little faster. He'd almost convinced himself John could read his mind at times, but if he had any idea of what Mark was thinking, he showed no indication of acceptance or disapproval.

"…Well, that's about it, isn't it? Or is there some other social function our work is keeping you from?" John said in a clearly mocking tone. He even topped it off with a sarcastic smile and chuckle.

"No. This is all I have," Mark said with a little sadness and shame.

"Good. Then we're though for today. Amanda and I have much to discuss. I will inform you when the test will begin and what actions you are to take."

Mark nodded, looking thoughtful. He had a thousand more things he felt he needed to say or ask, but time with John was always so scarce. Mark supposed it was because time was becoming more and more precious now that John's was quickly running out.

Amanda appeared in the doorway. He wondered how long she'd been standing there, and felt a little embarrassed at the thought that she had probably heard John mocking him and heard his reply, his pathetic reply that he had nothing to live for outside of this life with John and her. But then again, what was she giving up to be here? He bet it wasn't much either.

But Amanda didn't look smug at hearing Mark say that, nor did she attempt to taunt him. She actually looked a little sympathetic.

"Hello, John. Hello, Mark," she said, addressing him second as usual. Mark nodded at her and left quickly, not wanting to look at her looking at him like that. No, it was better when she hated him. It was better when she rebelled against his every suggestion, despised his every word. It was easier that way.

After John had dismissed him, he wasn't sure where to go. Usually he'd go home watch T.V. and sleep, or go back to work. He didn't dare go to bars anymore, for fear he'd indulge in old habits, but going home seemed so unappealing. The thought of facing Eric made him physically cringe. Eric was going to die, and he was going to be a part of that. He couldn't stand the thought. Why Eric? Why not a stranger? He didn't care what John said; he _was _testing Mark's loyalty. And it wasn't fair. Unlike Amanda, he'd had no choice but to help. He was being forced into this…

…wasn't he?

_I could go home now. I could go there and warn him. Tell him to leave town. But how would I explain that without telling him I'm working with Jigsaw? He wouldn't understand. We've been through some real shit together, but this is different. We've never killed anyone. We've only locked some people up who should have been locked up anyway. _

Eric would not understand.

Eric would tell Internal Affairs that Mark was crooked. Maybe they wouldn't take his word over Mark's immediately, but they'd start poking around and eventually they'd find something, and he couldn't get Eric to leave without telling him why he had to. This simple logical reasoning made the ultimatum clear to Mark. It was to either sacrifice his friend or himself.

_Maybe Eric will have a fair chance. Maybe he'll escape. The guy is tough, and resourceful too. Maybe he'll make it out. After all, Amanda did it. _

He didn't want to think about it anymore. Dear God, how was Amanda dealing with all this stress? She was like an emotional rollercoaster compared to him. How on earth was she getting through this without something, without a drink?

_Because she's not an alcoholic like you…but she _is_ a junkie. So how is she handling all this stress without a fix?_

Mark sat in his car and thought about it for a long time. It seemed like the only thing to do since he couldn't stand the thought of going home. After the longest time, it dawned on him rather abruptly, like searching blindly for something in the dark and then stumbling on it.

She remembers the feeling of being alive.

He remembered it too vividly. It felt better than intoxication ever did. After the shotgun had gone off as he'd nearly pissed himself, he'd felt anger at being tricked, and helpless because of this situation he was in, but at the same time, he felt amazed just to be sitting down in the chair without his head blown off. Amanda would of course felt the same thing when she threw the reverse bear trap on ground right before it went off. Although she probably felt disgusted by her actions as well though. He wondered how it felt to know you were taking an innocent person's life to save your own. He made a mental note to himself to ask her sometime.

_But then again…isn't that essentially what I am doing to Eric?_

_No…this is different. He has a chance to survive. I'll help him somehow, without John knowing and without it being too suspicious…somehow._


	12. Forgive Me

**Timeline: A week later (between Saw and Saw II)**

**Rating: Pg-13 for mild violence**

**Chapter 11**

**Forgive Me**

**"True friends stab you in the front." -Oscar Wilde**

Michael had conned or plea bargained his way out of dozens of misdemeanors and felonies, and so a part of Mark felt satisfied that justice would finally be served. It's not like there was anyone who would miss him anyway. A lingering sense of regret hovered within him though, because despite Michael's crimes, without one of their most reliable snitches, there were many cases that never would have even made it past the preliminary hearing, much less led to a conviction, without his assistance.

Mark recalled Michael helping them just last week. He gave them inside information on a drug dealer connected to a recent homicide. Of course he ratted him out to avoid his own charges of petty theft, but he was still a convenience to the department and an asset in making several convictions possible.

He wondered if that case would be the last one Michael would be involved in. When he looked over the blueprints for his trap, John's twisted design he liked to refer to as the "Venus Flytrap", Mark decided it probably was.

John once again demanded that both he and Amanda observe the gruesome game. It played out as Mark predicted it would. He watched Michael throw the scalpel down and fall to his knees in humility and desperation.

"Help me!"

Mark blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the metal spikes penetrated into Michael's skull, encasing his entire head. He fell over like a puppet whose master had snipped the stings. Blood oozed out of him, forming a crimson pool around his head.

"Are we done?" Mark said, a bored overtone in his voice. He looked over at Amanda and shook his head. Her mouth gaped open in surprise. She'd really expected him to gouge his eye out, or what remained of it, and dig around in his eye socket for a key. Mark wasn't sure anyone except the most masochistic kind of people would be capable of doing something like that; it seemed to go against the instinct of survival to self mutilate oneself and carve into the most vulnerable part of the face. He knew a coward like Michael certainly wouldn't have the guts to do it.

"Yes, you're dismissed."

John left the room, and Mark stood up, intending to follow him until he saw how shook up Amanda was.

"You okay?" he said, his face expressing a softer side, a part of himself he usually tried to shield while participating in these seemingly endless torture games.

She looked up at Mark and parted her lips to speak, but she couldn't find the words. She felt like a sealed envelope, unable to open without tearing and spilling out all the contents, or rather all her emotions. She didn't want to breakdown now, not in front of _him_. Especially since they'd had several arguments about her place here and her ability, or in Mark's opinion, her inability to deal with the inevitable setbacks and losses. Mark had already tried to argue the morality issue and explain that what they were doing was wrong.

_If it weren't for the blackmail I'd be gone. You should consider leaving before you get too involved._

But she was already too involved, and right now it showed, all over her face, her stiff body and her trembling hands.

"I'm fine," she lied, and turned her head away from both Mark and the gory remains of the latest Jigsaw victim.

Mark put a hand on her shoulder. For a brief moment, she considered looking up at him and trying to smile for his sake, in gratitude of his small gesture of kindness, but she felt the tears emerging from her eyes and sliding down her cheeks, tears she couldn't resist any longer, so she kept her head turned away from him and remained unresponsive, ignoring Mark's presence altogether. A few moments later she heard his sigh, so soft and sad that it sent a shiver through her and provided another round of tears she fought to keep in. Mark looked away, feigning obliviousness. Then he walked out, giving Amanda an attempt to salvage some of her pride.

John returned moments after Mark left, as if he'd been waiting for the moment Mark was gone to return. He knelt down to Amanda and touched the side of her face with his fingertips, tilted her head upwards, and revealed the evidence of her intense crying.

"I know the disappointment you feel. I feel it too," he whispered. "We have to continue our work though, if we are to ever succeed."

Amanda nodded, absorbing his everyone word and imprinting in her memory.

"Amanda, I need your help if our next test subject is to be successful. Your cooperation is essential. I have to know I can trust you to remain calm and focused."

Amanda nodded again, a little smile emerging this time. "Of course you can trust me."

* * *

"I forbid it!" Mark shouted. Amanda sides ached the with the force of her laughter.

"You _forbid_ it? Since when do I allow you to forbid me to do anything?"she regretted her choice of words as soon as she spoke. Mark's face just got redder, his frown deeper. Her petulance only aggravated Mark more, so she added on a side note, "Besides, it's John's idea, not mine."

"Of course," Mark said. He set the cup of coffee he'd bought from the convenience store down on the table before his trembling fingers could drop it or before his rage caused him to throw it across the room. Both options seemed likely scenarios at the moment.

"I'll be careful," Amanda said. He shook his head.

"It doesn't matter how careful you are. There will be danger all around you."

Amanda rolled her eyes. "I know where all the traps are. I set most of them up myself-"

"I'm not talking about the traps, Amanda!" he said. He held up a photograph of Obi, then let it drop to the floor as he grabbed on of Xavier.

The situation did seem more daunting when Mark held up the picture of a rather intimidating man in front of her, but she couldn't let it mess with her mind. She smiled at Mark. He was stunned for a moment, for usually all her smiles were reserved for John, and he only caught them in his peripheral vision. He could only imagine what kind of misplaced emotion inside of her generated that spontaneous smile.

"John has everything figured out," she said with confidence.

He groaned, annoyed with Amanda's unfaltering loyalty to John. It was like when he got called into the domestic disturbance cases and the wife's laying there, bruised and bloody, the kids the same way, with a knife sticking out of her flesh, saying with a smile, "He's a good husband, really. He just gets a little mad sometimes, but he's such a good man. You should see how he is with the kids."

Mark rubbed his eyes, as through trying to scrub away the remnants of a nightmare from his mind.

"Yeah, well I don't. I don't have _you_ figured out. How can you let him put you in danger like this...again?"

"He needs me. Why can't you just accept that he doesn't need you as much anymore-"

"I don't give a damn about him and what he needs!" Mark hissed. He grabbed Amanda's arm. She tried to free herself from his grasp, but it only made his tight grip hurt more. For a moment she was surprised at his strength, and it suddenly dawned on her how defenseless she really was. It was a fact that didn't slip past Mark either.

"Stop it!" Amanda said.

"You think _I'm_ cruel?" Mark whispered. Amanda tried to tear away, knowing she couldn't compete with his strength but hoping he might let go after he proved his point.

"Stop!"

"Think about what Xavier could do to you, or Obi-"

"Stop it!"

"You think John really cares-"

"_Stop it, Mark! You're hurting me!_" she cried.

As her yelling turned into a painful whimper accompanied by fresh tears, he instinctively released her. The marks on her arm would soon fade, but her words would linger in his mind much, much longer. It hurt him to do that to her and to watch her reaction. He stepped back, his chest heaving with tension as he looked at Amanda, who glared back at him with shock.

Although his borderline violent action hadn't been planned, he thought that maybe it had been appropriate. He saw fear in her eyes, fear that should have been there all along, since the moment she set eyes on this hellhole. She needed to be afraid; She just needed to redirect that emotion towards the right person.

"John doesn't care about you." Mark said. "He's using you. This test is proof of that. He uses everyone eventually, myself included. "

"John needs me to protect Daniel in case something goes wrong," Amanda said. "He can't do it, and you can't either, unless you want to blow your perfect cover, which obviously you won't since that's the only reason you're here. Someone has to do this, so unless you can think of a better idea, let it go."

"Daniel shouldn't even be involved-"

"Of course_ you_ think he shouldn't! You don't even think Eric Matthews should be tested! But you know what, Mark? I think he should! I think John is _dead on_ with this guy. You don't know what it's like to be framed for a crime you didn't do. I tried to get clean once before, and he planted drugs on me to get me thrown back in jail. And jail...you know better than I do, it's full of drugs. You can't get away from it..."

"It's practically the currency," Mark admitted.

"Eric screwed up my life. And I'm not the only one. He deserves to be tested. He deserves everything he gets!"

With that last statement, Amanda turned to storm out, but Mark chased after her.

"What?" she said. "What else could you possibly have to say to me?"

Mark hesitated, uncertain of the words but positive of the meaning he wanted to get through to her. He wanted to tell her to survive, to live through tomorrow so that he wouldn't have to kill the old bastard if something went wrong and she got hurt, so that he wouldn't have to live with the guilty conscience of another dead woman he cared about that he couldn't protect, and so that he wouldn't have to say good-bye to her, because the thought was unbearable. He tried, but he couldn't say any of that. He leaned in close to her, daring a kiss, but retreated before either of them could gather up the courage to go through with it.

"If you're there to protect Daniel in case something goes wrong...then who will protect you?"

Amanda looked up at Mark, so close that she could feel his exhale on her check.

"I don't need protecting," she whispered, looking into his beautiful clear eyes, searching his face for some kind of a response.

"Be careful," he said and watched as she gave him another one of her rare smiles and walked away.

* * *

Mark felt panic swell within him when Eric opened the door to his new apartment because Daniel was no where to be found. He scoped the place out with his peripherals and saw cardboard boxes, empty beer bottles, and basic furniture, but not a sign of Eric's own juvenile delinquent anywhere.

"Where's Daniel?" Mark asked as casually as he could, sitting on the old, stained furniture and trying to avoid staring at the alcohol only a few feet away from him that he desperately craved.

"Like I give a damn anymore. He probably ran off to go live with that bitch of a mother. They deserve each other."

"Eric..." Mark said, "You can't possibly mean that."

"I don't know what to do with him. What does he want me to do? His mother's the one who filed for a divorce. Even if I wanted to stop it, I can't. So he smokes pot thinking...what? Him getting arrested will bring us together? Maybe for an hour or so, while we take turns kicking his ass. Like she even gave a shit about either of us before..."

Eric continued rambling, his talk obviously influenced by the substance that was once in the empty bottles scattered all over the small apartment. For a moment Mark spaced out, realizing that John and Amanda had already begun Eric's game, and he didn't even know yet. At this current moment, Amanda's life was probably in danger, as well as Daniel's, and Eric was stumbling around like an idiot, totally oblivious to the danger, thinking that the most troublesome thing in his life was that his wife that he didn't love anymore anyway wanted a divorce, and his son got arrested with a misdemeanor for smoking pot. Within 24 hours, Eric's entire world would shift, his priorities would refocus, and for a moment, he'd be forced to see himself and his life exactly as John Kramer did. He's see what a moron he was for neglecting his son, for getting wasted and acting like a pathetic fool instead of being a responsible parent.

Mark couldn't bring himself to tell Eric any of this. It was too late. He's have to learn it all the hard way and possibly as a final lesson.

"Are you listening to me, Mark?" Eric asked.

Suddenly Mark's cell phone went off.

**PRIVATE NUMBER**

It was John in need of assistance of some kind. Mark took a deep breath to calm himself. Was he calling because of Amanda? Did she get hurt? Was he calling because he knew Mark had stopped by Eric's place and wanted to remind him not to interfere? Or did he really just need Mark to help set up the game?

"I've got to go, Eric," Mark said. "Sorry, I know I just got here, but-"

"Go ahead," Eric said, shooing Mark away with his hand. "You're not as much fun since you stopped drinking."

"How did you know I stopped?" Mark asked.

"You've been eyeballing that case of beer this whole time like it's been giving you a striptease."

Mark didn't smile, but simply stood up from the couch as he walked towards the door to leave.

"See? If you weren't sober, you would have thought that was hilarious."

"So I have to be drunk to fully appreciate your company?" Mark asked with a slight grin. Eric reciprocated the gesture.

"There you go, Mark. It seems like it's been awhile since you smiled. It's nice to see it, even if it is at my expense."

"I'll see you later, Eric," Mark said, looking at his best friend for what he knew could possibly be the last time, still subconsciously weighing the value of Eric's life against his own, still trying to find some way out for both of them. He knew he was fooling himself by maintaining any kind of hope. It was too late. John had gotten Daniel already. The game had begun. He looked into Eric's tired eyes, eyes that were too exhausted and full of grief to see the glaringly obvious pain in his best friend's face.

_Eric, forgive me, _he begged inside.

"See you later, Mark," Eric said, shutting the door behind him.

**Author's Note: Happy Valentine's Day everyone! I love my readers! ;)**

**More chapters soon. Please review. **


	13. The Games Have Just Begun

**Timeline: Hours later (begins with Saw V flashback and then goes straight to Saw II timeline. Confusing, I know, but it actually makes sense. Damn crazy Saw movies.)**

**Rating: Pg-13 for mild violence**

**Chapter 12**

**The Games Have Just Begun**

"**If you're good at anticipating the human mind, you'll find it leaves nothing to chance." -John**

Mark pointed the gun around at all the limp, unconscious people in the room, scattered around like victims of a random shooting or drive by. He waited for them to flinch or stir, but no one responded. The sedatives forced upon them had been effective. Although he'd been relieved to discover Amanda's safety had not been compromised and that John just needed help dragging in the bodies, seeing Xavier and Obi up close did not alleviate his concern for her. Never in his life did he ever want anything from John, but right at that moment he craved reassurance in his master plan. He wanted to possess that kind of blind faith in John that Amanda had.

"I'm assuming this is going to play out the way you want it?" Mark asked, handing John the gun as he spoke.

"I assume nothing. I anticipate the possibilities and let the game play out," John said.

"Then why did you need Amanda in the game?" Mark asked, hoping against poor odds that John might change his mind and decide it was too much of a risk after all. Mark's voice sounded normal enough, to his own ears at least, but both he and John detected a tinge of emotion he couldn't repress, the fear over Amanda's safety that he couldn't let go of. Mark looked through the peephole in the door, pretending to be meticulously focusing on fine tuning the trap, but truly just trying to avoid looking John in the eyes and revealing too much.

"To ensure that the rules are followed. She won't make decisions for anyone, she'll just…offer choices," John replied like a teacher explaining the simplest lesson that just couldn't sink in to the thick headed pupil. Of course that was the top priority for John at all time. _The rules._ Never mind the lives he put at risk.

"A little to your left," Mark replied, his voice wavering a little, because yet again he was looking into the barrel of a gun, and he didn't trust John much more than he had the first time John pointed a gun at him. Mark took a deep breath, resisted the urge to shake John with his bare hands and instead handed him the tape recorder and said in a low voice that hinted at his disapproval, "That leaves a lot to chance."

Either out of ignorance or apathy, John ignored Mark's insinuations. Instead, he placed the tape recorder in the hole behind the bricks and gave Mark the only hint of comfort he'd receive that night, an implication that John had it all planned out.

"If you're good at anticipating the human mind…it leaves nothing to chance."

John turned to look at Mark.

"It's time," he said, and Mark left the room. John followed, shutting the door behind them, leaving Amanda to face her first true challenge since she joined them so many months before, an entire lifetime ago.

She smiled. Mark's complete obliviousness amused her. _As if John would actually drug me before a test like this…especially since I need to keep a clear head._

His concern for her lingered in her mind.

"_Why did you have to put Amanda in the game?"_

The sound of his voice when he said that made her heart flutter. He was still hung up on that. She heard it again and again as she laid still on the floor, waiting hours and hours before the others woke up. She drifted off to sleep for a little while, but soon heard voices that stirred her into consciousness. She remained still until she realized everyone else was awake, and then she proceeded to act freaked out as she had rehearsed. Since there were several other people in that room just as dangerous as her if not more so and likely to retaliate against her if they discovered she was involved with Jigsaw, it wasn't hard to pretend she was terrified, especially when the black man she knew from John's files as "Jonas" pushed her against the wall and told her to calm down.

_Shhh, you're not supposed to know that! You don't know his name! You don't know anyone's name! You just woke up here, like the rest of them! Stay in character!_

It wouldn't be difficult to pretend she knew nothing. Currently she felt like she couldn't say a word. She was an actress that had finally gotten her spotlight, her moment to make John proud, and now she'd forgotten all her lines. It was one thing to imagine being in the game and another to actually stand there and see Jonas right beside her, Xavier pacing like a mean pit bull anticipating an attack, Laura sitting in a corner crying, Obi standing there eerily quiet with his jacket over his head like the damn Unabomber while Gus ranted like a lunatic and terrified everyone even more. Only Addison and Daniel didn't seem to be panicking or emitting a creepy vibe, but even they looked scared senseless upon closer inspection, especially Daniel, whose pale skin seemed to lose even more color as everyone around him lost their minds.

"What's your name?" Jonas asked.

"Amanda," she gasped. Her chest rose up and down as she hyperventilated. She asked, "Where am I?"

"We just woke up here, just like you."

"No!" Amanda screamed, over and over again. She beat at the walls, tore curtains and pushed Jonas away when he tried to put a soothing hand on her shoulder.

_This is how I would respond if I were put in one of John's games again. And then I would go into survival mode._

She began feeling around for the tape she knew was in the room. After searching the room for a few moments, she'd "discover" it and explain the game to them, explain how it all worked. After she convinced herself she'd explored enough red herrings to constitute a reasonable belief that she'd actually just stumbled upon it, she tapped on the loose bricks, threw them to the ground and pulled out the tape recorder.

The mere sight of the recorder brought back memories of her own game, of all the victims: Adam, Gordon, Thomas, Michael,...and the man she ripped apart for her own freedom. She didn't even have to fake her trembling.

"What is this?" Jonas yelled at her.

"Everything you need to know is on this tape," she said.

_Well, it wasn't a lie,_ she thought a little smugly, remaining her frantic facade on the outside.

Her thumb pushed the play button, and as the tape began, she felt herself calming down to the sound of John's synthesized voice. She'd listened to this tape many times before and even helped transcript some of it herself.

_Think hard. The numbers are in the back of your mind._

Amanda smiled on the inside. That line had been her idea. It started out as a little joke between her and John and to her surprise he decided to include it in the tape. Now she was glad he did. Hearing it again brought a sense of serenity. John had just given her encouragement without anyone else even being vaguely aware.

She looked over at Laura and mimicked her panicked expressions for inspiration on how to act.

"Who is this? How did you even know where to find this?" Jonas asked. Amanda slid down to the floor and found it was a convenient time to pretend she was overcome with fear, so much so that she couldn't answer his very suspicious and possibly incriminating questions.

"Do not attempt to use this key on the door to this room," Xavier read out loud. "Fuck this." He stormed over to the door.

"Fuck yeah, that's a good idea," Gus said.

"No! No, that's not a good idea," Amanda said.

"What are we gonna do then? Just sit here?"

"The note said not to use the key!" Amanda said, remembering to stay within the boundaries John had set for her. She could offer choices, but unless that choice involved harming Daniel, she could never interfere once a decision had been made, and despite how much Amanda hated to admit it, she suspected Mark had been right about Xavier and what potential harm he could cause. She didn't dare attempt to take the key from him by coercion.

He had made his choice, although it was Gus who paid the price for it. Gus twisted the key into the lock and looked though the peep hole. The gun went off, leaving a gaping fatal wound in Gus's head. Blood splattered on the walls and sprayed all over Laura who fell into a screaming fit and tried to wipe the blood off herself in a frantic and futile effort. Amanda's shrieking was the loudest sound reverberating in the room, despite her knowing ahead of time what could happen.

Suddenly the calm Jonas showed his true colors. He grabbed Amanda, threw her against the wall and started interrogating her, acting like the cops he so despised.

"You better start talking right now. What is this?"

"It's a game."

"It _ain't_ no _fucking _game! A man just got his head blown off!"

"He's testing us!"

"Who's testing us?"

"Jigsaw."

"Who the hell is Jigsaw?"

Suddenly Addison jumped into the conversation.

"Don't you watch the fucking news?" she asked.

"No, who is he?" Jonas asked her. Amanda was grateful the attention shifted from her for a moment. The fear of getting caught in a lie was making her heart pound, but at least it made her fear authentic.

"He's a serial killer."

Amanda jumped to his defense in pure instinct as though he was there in the room with her, for she so completely identified with him, she felt she was defending herself as well.

"No, he's not. He's testing us. He wants us to survive this. We have to play by the fucking rules!"

A silence followed as everyone in the room tried to take in what she said and understand it. She managed to stop before she incriminated herself. Jonas once again began trying to extract more information from Amanda.

"Imma ask you again, how do you know all this?"

Amanda hesitated. Jonas was clearly the cleverest, or at least the most paranoid person in the group, and thus he would be the hardest to trick. He was on to her. She either hadn't played the victim well enough, or he was just desperate for answers and badgering her because she had some.

Either way, she thought of a response that might make him sympathize enough to leave her alone. Memories of that day came flooding back to her mind, memories that made the emotion in her voice all too real and painful.

"Because I've played before."

* * *

**Author's Note: First of all, I'm sorry it's been awhile since my last update. I got a sinus infection and then I had a lot of school work I had to catch up for the few days I was too sick to do anything. I'm better now.**

**Have you ever listened to Leigh's comments about Saw fanfiction on the "Saw" commentary? **

**Leigh: "You know that I went on-line and I saw some great Saw fansites, and one of them had a link to some Saw fanfiction...one of them was about [Gordon's] point of view after he crawled out of the bathroom. It's about three pages of just this inner monologue going ...**

**'Oh God, my foot's missing! What do I do now? I'm bleeding! And my foot's missing! And I'm bleeding! And to top it all off, my foot's gone. And of course I've ruined my best shirt...'"**

**Haha. Love it. The whole commentary is absolutely hilarious. I don't watch commentaries that often, (or ever, unless their Saw) but I highly recommend listening to the whole thing at least once.**


	14. The Furnace

**Timeline: Minutes after the last chapter, plus one flashback scene**

**Rating: Pg-13, for violence**

**Chapter 13**

**The Furnace**

**"Can't you smell that smell?**

**The smell of death surrounds you." **

**- Lynyrd Skynyrd, "That Smell"**

"Do not attempt to use this key on the door to this room," Xavier read out loud.

_Good thing we used small words…I'm surprised the blockhead can even read,_ Mark thought with a slight smile, one that didn't linger on his face for long. Amanda wasn't even out of the first room in John's twisted game and already he had to resist the urge tear John apart limb from limb, illness or not, for doing this to her, and for doing this to him, forcing him to watch her go through this ordeal and fret over her. He clinched his fist every time Jonas threw her against a wall, interrogated her like he knew who she was and what she was really doing there.

_But he doesn't know. He has no right to lay a hand on her._

Men like Jonas disgusted him, men that thought they had the right to throw women around. He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered his academy training and his Jigsaw mentoring that taught him the ways to detach himself from his emotions in all situations, even in a crisis.

It wasn't working.

His eyes never left the monitor. He felt he'd offered up his soul to the devil in exchange for his anonymity, for what he was being forced to endure in exchange for his freedom felt like pure hell. He waited for the end of the game, or for the moment he couldn't bear to watch anymore, the moment he would intervene and perhaps throw away all he had worked so hard to achieve.

He watched as Amanda descended into the basement. Obi's test. The freaky one with the bald head and hard eyes, the one John hired to help him kidnap some of the other players beforehand. It had been a great convenience to Mark at the time, but now it was a great concern. Especially since the monitor in the basement had flickered out and was now only a black screen. Either John's careless faulty wiring was to blame, or a rat had chewed through one of the wires. Mark also suspected that maybe John had intentionally done this, just because he liked the thought of Mark squirming in nervous apprehension for a little while.

Seconds crawled into minutes while Mark's undivided attention remained on that door. Only after he felt certain enough time had elapsed for something to go wrong did he check the clock that was at the other end of the room.

He noticed that only five minutes had passed. Five minutes that seemed like eternity.

* * *

"...just remember Obi. Once you're in hell, only the devil can help you out."

"What the hell does that mean?" Jonas said.

"You have five seconds to tell us how to get out of here!" Xavier shouted, pulling the knife out of the fake corpse and pointing it towards Obi. Amanda remained on the staircase, as far back as possible, hidden in the shadows, completely forgotten, just the way she liked it. Unless they threatened Daniel, threatened ruining their game, she would let them stab each other to death if they chose to do so. _Survival of the fittest,_ John would argue. Amanda's own mounting fear made her blindly agree.

"I don't know a way out," Obi said in a voice to calm it made Amanda shiver.

"Then you're a dead man," Xavier said. Interestingly enough, Xavier's death threats didn't have to same effect as Obi's eerie sense of calmness.

_You're playing with fire Xavier,_ Amanda thought. _You don't realize that you're about to get burned._ Then, remembering Obi's arson record, she nearly smiled at the irony. If it wasn't for the adrenalin fear rushing through her, as potent and effective at distorting her thoughts and paralyzing her like some type of drug, she was positive she probably would have revealed her thoughts in her expression. Not that anyone would have noticed anyway. They were too busy tossing around insults and pulling out weapons.

Addison intervened in breaking them apart, reminding them that two of the antidotes they were seeking resided in that trap. Then more bickering ensured. Would they even want to stick themselves with an unknown substance? Who would receive the antidotes? Who should get them out of the furnace? Amanda wondered if they'd ever get out of this dark basement, or if everyone but her and Daniel would argue themselves to death, stalling until the poison coursing through them finally wore down their bodies till they were too weak to save themselves. It would be an ironic fate, something John would definitely appreciate. Perhaps that was his plan after all.

Laura collapsed, the strength weaning out of her fragile body as the poison took its effects. Amanda couldn't resist feeling a little pity. She walked down the stairs and knelt next to Laura, who looked paler than ever. Amanda put a hand on her shoulder, and in a whisper, asked if she was okay. Laura just looked at her with pathetic, tired eyes, the vitality in them fading with every passing moment.

"If you're going to threaten me with a knife, you may as well cut me a little. I guess I'm going in there to get those antidotes, but I get one," Obi said at last, after cutting his neck with the blade in a show of male egotism. Amanda cringed. She had no doubt that he would get whatever it was that he wanted. She just didn't know if he'd come out alive afterward.

* * *

_One week ago..._

"How does this trap work?" Amanda asked. "What does Obi have to do?"

John's eyes never left the blueprints. His calloused fingers traced the paper like someone idly caressing a lover's face.

"Obi is an arsonist who'll have to come into direct contact with his malicious obsession if he wants to survive." Of course John highlighted the irony of Obi's trap instead of directly answering her question, but it didn't matter because she'd already become an amateur at reading his plans and blueprints. She saw exactly how it worked. Obi would have to crawl through the fire to twist the knob and save himself.

"But what if he only takes one of the antidotes and crawls out?" Amanda asked.

John swiveled his chair and looked her in the eyes.

"He won't. He'll take both of them."

"Yeah, he probably will. But what if he doesn't?"

"He will," John said, as though it would occur exactly like he said it would because he deemed it so. He appeared to her so omnipotent in that moment, before he broke into yet enough coughing fit, one of the worst ones she'd witnessed in awhile. She automatically fetched a glass of water for him, but he shunned it away. In doing so, he accidentally knocked it from her hands, causing it to shatter and send pieces of glass flying all across the floor. Amanda stood there immobilized for a moment. It happened every so often, he'd be so strong and powerful in one moment so that she'd forget for a little while that he was even sick, and then he'd crumble into a shell of his former glorious self, and she'd see the humane side of him, the weak side. It broke her heart every time.

When the coughing ceased, she noticed John's face was entirely red.

"You have to drink some water," Amanda said and went to get him another cup. When she came back, he accepted it this time.

"Thank you, Amanda," he said.

"I'm sorry about the glass," she said, tears in her eyes. She knelt down and began picking up the pieces with her bare hands.

"Amanda, it's okay. It was my fault."

"No, it's not okay!" she said. A tear drop fell on her left hand. They both noticed it was covered in blood from clinching a sharp piece of glass with too much pressure. Her tear drop slid into the blood. She swiped it on her jeans, smearing it into the fabric without concern.

"Amanda, I'm sick. You've known this since the beginning," John said.

"I know," she said. She looked up at him and held one of his hands with her hand that had not been drenched in blood.

"But it doesn't make it any easier," she explained. "It's hard to watch you...get worse."

His head tilted slightly, as though he was seeing her in a new way. Perhaps analyzing how he would remedy this problem, this emotion that Amanda felt for him that she should be trying to eliminate, the way Mark so easily did. Or perhaps trying to understand how she had so quickly become attached to him. But regardless of his thoughts, he didn't offer chastisement of any kind.

Instead, John placed his other hand on top of hers and stroked it softly.

"It will get easier with time, I promise."

Amanda gave him the best smile she could manage, but it was distorted by the sadness and pain she couldn't eradicate from her heart.

* * *

Amanda's memory was interrupted by Obi's screaming. She knew inside what was going to happen, just as she knew one of them was going to die in the room they woke up in. Yet it was so difficult to get accustomed to the sound of screaming, a sound that was so full of pain and futility. She turned her head away from the furnace, and eventually faced her entire body the other way, as if trying to forget he was in the room. In a way she was right, for soon Obi would be gone and only his burned corpse would be with them.

Then suddenly she couldn't block him from her mind by closing her eyes, because he got to her in another way. Her senses were consumed by the odor of burning flesh. She gagged on the scent, and then turned her head towards Obi. His hand pressed up against the glass. Survival mode kicked in for everyone else. No longer concerned with saving their fellow prisoner, they anxiously tried to break the glass to gain access to the antidotes.

The screaming grew in intensity as the glass window broke and Obi managed to get his head and one of his arms through, but despite how slender his body was, he couldn't crawl the rest of the way though the hole. Amanda looked at him, and then had look away again. It seemed either way was torture, and that grotesque smell of the burning human inside the furnace grew more and more potent every second. She felt her stomach toss and turn. She choked for a moment as she swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. Bodily fluids threatened to emerge from her if she continued to expose her senses to the disgusting smell of death much longer.

Then suddenly the screaming stopped. She looked at him again. His hand no longer stretched out for freedom, his head no longer straining upwards as he emitted screams of agony. He was gone. Only a useless dead shell remained, along with the lingering smell.

"I want the fucking needle!" Xavier yelled over and over again at the body, clinching Obi's head in his hands, the body that could no longer comply with his request even if Xavier did manage to convince him to follow his command. Obi could have saved one of them by offering them the antidote, but the cure had died with him. Maybe it was Obi's final act of selfishness, or maybe he'd lost it when panicking. Amanda preferred to think of the latter scenario, not that it mattered anymore.

Amanda grabbed a shovel that was sitting on a table and marched up the stairs before that scent could torture her anymore.

"He had a choice," she said, reminding herself more than anyone else in the room, who remained oblivious to her anyway. She opened the door, freeing herself of that awful odor, and simultaneously freeing Mark of his anxiety...for the moment.

**Author's Note: Sorry for the lag in updates. I'm a college student, and college consumes all your free time. I have NOT lost my muse, I'm just really busy. I'll try to update more frequently from now on. Thank you to the people who are still reading. :D **


	15. The Needle Pit

**Timeline: Minutes later**

**Rating: Pg-13 for violence**

**Chapter 14 **

**The Needle Pit**

"**Man is the cruelest animal." -Friedrich Nietzsche **

Amanda imagined that if Mark was here with her he'd be rolling his eyes and, no doubt with a cocky grin, boasting to her that he could take Xavier down in a fair fight. It would be something Mark would say, either to impress her or simply because his male ego forbid him to say otherwise.

She scolded herself again. She needed to keep her head in the game and stop wishing he'd suddenly come to the rescue. Although she knew he wanted to, he wouldn't sacrifice that previous anonymity. She was aware that Mark would be more useful if he remained anonymous and continued working within the police department, but it still annoyed her that he tried to feign innocence to the outside world. It was also irritating because she wanted him right by her side, right at that moment, and the mere fact that she was aware she wanted him close to protect her was gnawing at her pride and driving her insane.

But the fact was there, and it was undeniable. She wanted him here in the game with her. It suddenly struck Amanda as funny. Half the time she was annoyed with his mere presence, yet here she was, in one of the most dangerous situations she'd ever been in, and the person she wanted beside her the most was Mark Hoffman. Not John, but Mark. When she looked at Xavier and his huge muscles, bulging veins, and a determined-as-hell expression on his face, she didn't want weak, sickly John at her side. She wanted Mark next to her, someone who could stand up to him, someone who could face him without fear. She wanted to have that courage. That strength. And she finally admitted to herself, partly due to her thoughts racing so fast her conscious could no longer suppress any thought that might be awkward or undesirable, what she really wanted was _him_.

Amanda grew frustrated as she tried to figure out what it was that kept him in her thoughts at this completely inconvenient time. Was it the way his hand had grabbed her, and he'd shown how much he really cared by pleading with her to leave before she got hurt? Was it that moment where he'd almost kissed her, that moment she'd tried so hard in vain to block out while she played the game? Or was it simply the fact that ever since they'd been reacquainted, Mark had only been willing to help her and look out for her, with nothing expected in return? It was the first time in her life someone was willing to do something like that. Even John had expectations from her, asked things of her she wasn't always comfortable doing, like participating in the game she was currently in. Like always, she could never say no to the men who demanded things from her. It was always the men like Mark that she dismissed. Only this time, she didn't want to.

She decided then that she had to live, if only for her petulant desire to prove to him that she was right and he was wrong, that she could take care of herself, and also so she could see him again and go through with that damn kiss that she couldn't get out of her head, the one that had so nearly happened it haunted her even now amidst all the danger.

"You said you survived, right?" Daniel asked, cutting through all of her thoughts.

"Yeah," she said, continuing her search for things to fight back with, should Xavier get hostile, and also acting like she would under normal circumstances, as if she'd woken up here a true victim.

"So, we could survive too, right?"

Amanda looked at Daniel and smiled.

"Yeah," she said sarcastically.

"My Dad's a-"

Amanda glared at him.

_Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it_.

Daniel stammered for a moment, mentally racking his brain for the words that would help him back out of the confession he was almost about the make.

"My Dad's a real hard ass, you know."

_Good save, kid._

"He's probably got half the city right now looking for me, just so he can kick my ass for disappearing on him."

_Yeah, that sounds like Eric Matthews._

He smiled and she forced herself to return one.

"Yeah, probably," she said, her voice wistful and full of doubt even though she tried to make it sound sincere. She stood up and turned around. Jonas suddenly appeared in front of her, starling her for a moment. He alerted them that they found another unlocked room.

Jonas lead them to the room that Amanda knew contained Xavier's game. She stared at the door Xavier continued to bang against over and over again. Finally he succeeded at gaining access to the room. The countdown began. Everyone but Amanda walked in. She lingered behind for a moment, hesitating entering. She wanted to remain forgotten.

_Out of sight, out of mind, right?_

Besides, by knowing that it was Xavier's trap, she wasn't exactly feigning fear.

"Now what?" Addison asked.

"Whatever we do, we got four minutes to get it done," Jonas said.

Xavier walked over to the door and examined it. He moved like the neanderthal he was. He used his first instinct- force- to try to open the door. He failed as Amanda knew he would.

Jonas found Xavier's envelope. He pulled out the recorder they found in the previous game. He replaced Obi's tape with Xavier's and pressed play.

"Hello, Xavier. I want to play a game."

Jonas strolled around the room holding the tape, strutting as if he owned the place and made all the rules.

"A game that's very similar to the game that's you've been playing as a drug dealer."

Xavier's shocked expression was priceless. Amanda entered the room now, a devious expression of amusement on her face.

"A game of offering hope to the desperate...for a price. I think we can agree that you're situation is desperate..."

For a moment Amanda lost focus on the tape, completely entertained in Xavier's internal panic. She was aware it was a very morbid amusement, but she couldn't help feeling a little satisfied that the fear was getting to him, that he was at last processing the severity of his dire situation.

"Hey guys," Daniel said, a tremor in his voice. He pointed to the bedsprings. Xavier pulled the blanket off of it and lifted it up, revealing a huge hole filled with thousands of syringes.

"It will be like finding a needle in a haystack. Let the game begin."

A moment of silence followed the sarcastic chuckle.

"Someone's going in there," Xavier said. "Somebody's fucking going in there."

Amanda's heart pounded in her chest like a wild rabbit's.

_Someone?_

It was Xavier's test. But she remembered the note and his complete disregard for the instructions. He hadn't learned anything from that first lesson. He was still determined to break the rules. Anyone was a potential victim. Amanda felt like crying. This wasn't supposed to happen, he wasn't supposed to twist all the rules around! John would be furious! But how could she stop it?

She tried to avoid looking at Xavier, but at the same time, she wanted to look at him to see what he was thinking, if he was coming towards her. Her eye contact was all the motivation Xavier needed. His intense stare revealed his devious plan, and Amanda sensed it immediately. He darted to her.

"No, no, no, no, no!" she screamed, running away from him. There wasn't really anywhere to go, and she wasn't fast enough.

"You're sick," Daniel said, revolted by Xavier's actions.

Amanda continued screaming. Everyone was telling Xavier not to do it, but their words accomplished nothing.

"What the fuck are you doing?" someone said. Amanda's frantic shrieking was the sound that dominated all of their voices in both volume and intensity. It was the only thing she and Xavier could hear. He held her by both her arms, clutching her so tightly she almost wanted him to let go except for the fact she knew her landing would be even more painful.

"No, no, no, please!" she begged.

She tried to grab onto him, but he threw her into the hole. She collapsed onto thousands of needles. Her back got the worst of it, but there was pain all the way down, shooting through her from head to toe. Her spine felt like it had snapped in half upon impact with the needles. The syringes below her and surrounding her stabbed and scratched her skin with different degrees of severity. Over a dozen penetrated several inches into her flesh.

When she thought her throat was too raw to continue emitting sound, her wailing persisted regardless. The pinprick sharpness of the needles were driving her mad, bringing her to a level of pain she never fathomed existed.

"Come on! Come on!" she heard Xavier yell from above. He was goal-oriented and focused, if nothing else. He probably could have been a leading CEO with that attitude, if not for his sadism and life of crime.

Amanda rolled over, partly to begin her task and partly to alleviate the pain of the needles and broken glass piercing her flesh.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" Daniel asked Xavier. He couldn't understand how someone could be so completely cruel and self-seeking. If he wanted the antidote so badly, he should have been the one to go into the hole and scrummage around for a key through all the syringes. How he could be so brutal and force another human being to endure that was beyond Daniel's level of understanding.

Xavier turned away, looking guilty and worried that she might not get the job done.

"You're out of your fucking mind," Jonas said.

Amanda began to dig through the needles as they spoke, her pain turning all their words into gibberish sounds with no meaning attached. All she understood was the pain, the all consuming distraction.

"Come on! Come on!" Xavier yelled. He kept glancing over at the clock.

"We're running out of time."

* * *

Mark physically cringed as through he was the one being subjected to the torture. His face contorted in pain along with hers. John entered the room. Mark wasted no time in updating him.

"Amanda..." Mark said, and then he paused for a moment as he tried to form the words to describe the horrific turn of events that just took place in front of him.

"Amanda is in the needle pit. Xavier threw her into his trap," Mark said. John raised one of his eyebrows slightly. He examined the monitors with mild curiosity and watched as Amanda clawed her way threw the piles of needles.

"This wasn't part of the plan!" Mark shouted when it seemed as though John wasn't fully processing what was going on. "He's not playing by the rules! Amanda wasn't prepared for this! We have to intervene!"

"At this point, intervening...would ruin everything."

"Is that all you're worried about? Eric's game? Well I'm pretty sure Amanda _dying_ would ruin everything, or do you just not care-"

"I care a great deal for Amanda's safety!" John hissed back. "But this isn't the time. Amanda is resourceful. She'll take care of herself. The problem is not her safety; it is your lack of faith in her."

John paused, and then gently reminded Mark of the obvious.

"Besides, the needle pit isn't exactly fatal."

Mark froze, a devious thought seeping into his conscious from John's careless words.

"That's why Xavier's trap wasn't designed to be fatal. _You knew_ this would happen, didn't you? That he would force Amanda to do his test?" Mark said.

"Yes, I suspected something like this might happen, to either Amanda or one of the other test subjects."

"You knew...you knew...unbelievable..." Mark said. He shook his head in disbelief, trying to process the bombshell John had just revealed so calmly. His hands clinched the edge of the table; the thought passed through his mind for a moment that he might snap it in half.

_I should kill him right now,_ Mark thought, the first true homicidal urge he'd had since the day John put a shotgun to his face and dared to pull the trigger. All the possible methods of killing him taunted Mark's imagination. The hammer a few yards away might make a mess when he bashed it into John's skull, but it would surly do the job and so would the wretch or screwdriver. The gun he left in the other room would be efficient, although far too quick. And of course there were the other dozens of torture devices just laying around begging to be used to satisfy Mark's blood lust. Temptation surrounded him. It was the worst place in the world to have to fight off feelings of rage and hatred. Mark had to avert his eyes from all the potentially lethal items in the warehouse he could use to murder John with, for at the moment, it would be too difficult to resist, despite the possible regret he might have later.

"You look troubled, Mark. I assure you, if it appears that Amanda can't defend herself, I will allow you to-"

"Fuck you," Mark said. Not exactly the best verbal defense he had, but his mind wasn't functioning correctly. "I'll do whatever the fuck I want, and when I decide it's time to get involved, I will."

"Very well," John said. "Although I must remind you that in doing so, you will lose the anonymity you desire so much."

Mark groaned.

"I knew this whole thing was a bad idea," he said.

* * *

Seconds dawdled in her mind, imitating minutes and hours due to the intense pain Amanda endured. Often she thought time had surely run out and that her search had become futile, but she continued digging into the needles, searching for the key that she herself had put into the pit only one day ago. She had tossed it in and didn't hesitate before emptying boxes and boxes and boxes of needles on top of it. The irony of the situation would not have been lost on her, that is, if she'd been capable of thinking anything at all. That was the problem with immense pain. It was a good distraction when she needed one, but it could be a true hindrance when she required focus.

She concentrated on the image of the key. She remembered the weight of it in her hand, the shape of it, the edges of it pressing into her palm, leaving a slight imprint. She longed to feel it again. She thought only of having the key in her possession once more. Amanda flung the needles behind her, buried her hands into them with more aggression, forcing her body to grow accustomed to the pain, as though her life were hanging in the balance. Her subconscious whispered to her, a tiny voice reminding her that her life _could_ be very much on the line if she failed. It seemed as though John had not done a proper risk assessment when he decided to include Xavier in the game. Certainly John had not intended for Xavier to act this hostile, to throw her into the trap.

He paced, and watched the clock count down, helpless to do anything.

"Keep fucking looking!" he yelled. "Come on! Come on!"

"Fuck you! Fuck you!" she shrieked. The sound she emitted almost didn't sound like speech, more like an animalistic cry from another species that happened to mean something in English. The noise sounded like a cats fighting.

"Someone's gotta help her," Daniel said. He looked around. They all had worried or sympathetic expressions, but no one was willing to share her pain.

"What the fuck guys?" he said. He stood near the hole, debating whether or not to jump in and help. The way Amanda was tossing needles around made him hesitate.

At last, the key finally came into her view. She grabbed it and tossed it over onto the floor. 10 seconds left. Xavier grabbed the key and hurried to unlock the door. Amanda leaned against the wall, sobbing from her pain. Xavier fumbled with the key, and dropped it on the floor, losing the precious seconds he needed. The time read 0:00. Xavier had not accessed his antidote. Time had run out. Despite Amanda enduring the real test, Xavier had still failed. Everyone looked disappointed.

But Amanda's thoughts were a million miles away from games and antidotes and timers. Her mind still struggled with the pain, her neurons still relentlessly fired away, her body still felt as though it were swimming through the needles as their unforgiving sharp pricks still rammed themselves inside of her. The wounds they inflicted on her limbs and torso bled. To let them remain in her meant continuing agony, but to remove them meant the pain would intensify for awhile, a state of being she couldn't imagine even existed. Her one coherent thought was the wish that there had been something in the syringes to dull her senses. Guilt she felt over having such a thought soon replaced the idea. She sobbed as her consciousness broke again under the shock of what her body just endured.

Daniel helped her out of the pit and knelt by her side. He removed one of the needles. Amanda faintly realized his presence and gasped with the fresh pain that came from him removing the syringe. Daniel shook his head and glared upwards angrily at the cameras. He felt like flipping the voyeuristic bastards off, but instead he just mouthed, "Fuck you," as clearly as possible and continued removing the syringes from Amanda's body.

* * *

"I told you she would be fine," John said. He made the mistake of attaching a slight smile towards the end of his statement, a gesture that brought forth rage from Mark.

"You call that _fine_? She has a dozen fucking needles sticking out of her arm!" Mark yelled. He rose from his chair so quickly it toppled over to the side. His index finger hovered near the monitors and he pointed at Amanda, who had yet to gather her senses enough to stand. When he looked at her his face relaxed, and rage turned into pleading.

"We have to help Amanda," he said, his voice breaking at the very end.

John looked closer at the screen, inspecting it meticulously.

"She's not as injured as you think, Mark. She is resilient."

Mark shook his head in disagreement.

"At least," John said, "The others will not suspect her now. She's actually a great deal safer now than she was before."

"Yeah," Mark said, "Because a _sane_ person would never subject themselves to being thrown into a pit of syringes, or put someone else that they care about in there either!"

"Are you calling Amanda and me insane?"

"You, definitely. There's no doubt in my mind. As for Amanda, I'm undecided. But when it comes to you, she's becomes insane. Batshit insane."

John chuckled, repressing it as well as he could to prevent another coughing fit.

"I'm glad you think this is all so funny. At the snap of your fingers, she rushes away to do what ever you tell her to, no matter how dangerous or crazy it is. You abuse your power too much."

"Yes, well luckily, what goes on between Amanda and myself is none of your concern," he said, just edging Mark on now, taunting him with the fact that he had absolute control over Amanda's mind.

"If I killed you right now, it would be a justified homicide because you're holding her hostage. Her life is in your hands."

"Amanda has freewill. She has just _willingly_ subjected it to my control."

"No, you're wrong. She's trapped. Trapped in her mind, trapped in that house with all those psychotic criminals, and you're the one that put her there!" he shouted. This time, he wouldn't just settle for words. Words were weak. Words fell and faded before their true meaning was understood. Words were not getting the message through. Words were wasted on John Kramer. Mark grabbed the collar of John's shirt with both hands, his nails digging into the cotton material, turning his knuckles white from the pressure. His face hovered inches above John's, who looked up at Mark expressionless, almost bored. Mark shook him once. His head jerked back from the thrust, but besides a slight grunt, John didn't bother to give Mark's outburst any attention, like a parent waiting out a child's temper tantrum. Mark shook him again, ignoring the IVs and other medical equipment around them that served as a reminder that Mark was battering a cancer patient.

_Being sick doesn't excuse being a sadist bastard,_ Mark thought. He shook him again, the assault more violent than the first, but John never lost his placid expression.

"What I find interesting..." John said, "Is why you care so much, when most of the time you're begging me to send her away."

Mark's wanted to release John, wanted to break the eye contact before John could see what Mark really felt, but the paralysis that possessed his body in response to John's simple statement incorporated itself completely into his hands.

"...Only because...leaving would be for her own good. And I want her safe," Mark said at last. His eyes darted away, and the the IV came into focus in Mark's peripheral vision. He let go of John, who didn't seem to notice or care that Mark released him.

"Well, Mark. If you truly feel that way, feel that Amanda's life is in immediate danger, you know what you must do. I can't exactly stop you," he pointed out.

Mark looked at the screen again. In the time that he and John had spent bickering, Amanda and Daniel had removed the needles from her and had already left the room. She leaned on Daniel for support, but she didn't appear to be giving up, nor did she try to send them any kind of signal to indicate she needed their help. As a matter of fact, she was avoiding looking at the cameras at all.

_Is she trying to tell us not to intervene? _Mark wondered. Although his heart protested against it, he reasoned that was the most likely scenario.

"I'll wait..._for now_," Mark said, succumbing at last. He looked over at John and added, "You better be right about this."

**Author's Note: Sorry for the slow updates, loving the reviews and/or favs. ;)**


	16. Unforeseen Complications

**Timeline: About 15 minutes later**

**Rating: PG 13 for violence**

**Chapter 15**

**Unforeseen Complications**

"**I'm assuming this is going to play out the way you want it?" -Mark Hoffman**

"**I assume nothing. I anticipate the possibilities and let the game play out." -Jigsaw**

The desire for survival drove Amanda onward despite the pain. Daniel provided her great comfort. His sweetness made her glad that a part of her task was to protect him, to ensure that this particular pawn remained unharmed. It allowed her the chance to actually feel for one of the victims and be comforted by the thought that he wouldn't be dead by the end of the game, so long as there weren't any more unforeseen complications in John's master plan.

_Why didn't John see that coming? _She asked herself that over and over.

Daniel assumed it was just her pain that caused her to sigh so wistfully. His right shoulder tensed up, sore from Amanda leaning on him for support. He grunted a little. She realized she was tiring out the poor kid who was too polite to say anything. Amanda stood up straight, alleviating the burden.

"Are you sure you're okay enough to stand?" he asked. She smiled and shook her head to indicate she was.

He rolled his shoulder and rubbed it for a moment.

"I think my shoulder fell asleep," he said, an awkward smile accompanying his statement.

"Sorry about that," she said, smiling again. Damn, his polite smiles were contagious.

"It's okay. Don't worry about it," he said. He looked over at Laura, who reminded Amanda of a sick child sleepwalking in an unconscious daze. She looked ready to fall over and give into her inevitable demise at any moment. Amanda realized that even if Laura found an antidote immediately, she'd probably succumb to the poison anyway. Laura was a dead woman walking in a futile effort for salvation.

_How fair is that?_

_Don't think about it now. Don't think about it at all. Focus._

"I don't think she's going to make it out of here alive," Daniel said. He looked at Amanda with a nervous expression on his face.

"You know," he said, pausing for a moment and looking around suspiciously,"Everyone else is coughing up blood and getting sick, but weirdly enough, I feel fine. Totally fine. And you look fine too."

_Damn, this kid is smart!_

"Do you think maybe..."

_Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it._

"We have some natural immunity to it? I mean, I read about something like that in my biology class. I don't really remember how it works though. Maybe I should have paid a little more attention. Or actually went to class," he laughed at the end, an anxious laugh with no humor. His hands twitched at his side. His mouth trembled at the end of every single sentence. His jittery motions made Amanda feel nervous too. She had encountered crack heads and meth addicts that possessed more calamity than him.

"Natural immunity? I don't really know much about it either. But maybe we shouldn't talk about it now," she said, her eyes gesturing over to the others.

She leaned in close and whispered in his ear so no one would overhear, not that they were paying any attention anyway.

"I'm sure the others wouldn't like hearing about that."

"Oh right," he said.

"But hey," she said, backing away and giving him some personal space, "It's a good theory. You're probably right," she said, tacking on a fake smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Yeah," he said.

At this point, Xavier had already stormed off, claiming they were holding him back. How they were doing that, he didn't say. Amanda wondered if a part of his irrational behavior was caused by the poison that must be taking its toll on him by now or if he was just naturally devolving due to the stressful situation they were in.

Laura collapsed. She couldn't hold out much longer. Amanda knelt down to hold her.

"No. We can't stop," Addison said. Amanda looked at Laura's pale face. What had she done to deserve this? Amanda couldn't remember. As she looked at the dying girl, it was as though all of Laura's faults were forgiven, all of her sins absolved. Amanda kept reminding herself that the girl was here because she hadn't appreciated her life, and she'd done something horrible to prove her obvious neglect for it, but Laura's innocent, pleading eyes made it hard for Amanda to convince herself of that.

The poison gradually waned all vitality from Laura. Her last moments were drifting away.

"We've been here two hours. If what that tape says is true, than in one hour the front door will open," Addison said.

One hour. Laura didn't have one hour. Laura didn't even have many minutes left.

"We're not going to make it that long!" Amanda said. Truthfully, Amanda would be fine in one hour, but the weak girl in her arms certainly would not.

"That's a real winning attitude!" Addison said.

"She knows what she's talking about," Daniel said, coming to Amanda's defense.

"X marks the spot," Laura whispered.

"What?" Amanda said.

"X marks the spot...for the answer," she said, using what little energy she possessed to point towards the cracked photo frame on the wall.

Addison looked at the frame and yanked it off the wall. She turned it around and looked at the photograph of Eric Matthews and his son.

"What are you doing with him?" Addison asked Daniel.

Daniel grabbed the photograph from her. Addison read the back of it."Father and Son"

"He's your father?" she asked in disbelief and undisclosed hatred.

"Yeah. You know him?"

_Now all the pieces will come together,_ Amanda could hear John say. She wanted to tell him to shut up. Listening to Daniel's scared voice was much harder to deal with than Amanda thought it would be. He was a rebellious teen and a petty thug when she kidnapped him, and now he was just a scared little kid, as proven by his trembling voice.

"Yeah. He's the guy who put me away, who set me up," Addison snapped.

Amanda looked at Daniel and tried to feign surprise, but it came out as desperation instead.

"Tell me that's not your father," she said.

"I..." he began, but his words were interrupted by Laura's violent seizure. Her entire body began to tremor as the poison began its final attacks on her. Her immune system had simply given up entirely. Amanda tried to hold Laura's head still to keep it from banging against the wall as the convulsion shook her entire body. Laura vomited all over the hands that tried to protect her. Amanda looked away, whispering comforting words.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh" she said, as if anything she could say would make any difference.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. Amanda held her head entirely still, firming her grip. One moment Laura was shaking violently back and forth, and then suddenly she laid there limp, unmoving, drool and vomit seeping from her gaping mouth and falling onto Amanda's lap.

_What just happened?_ Had her grip on Laura's head caused her to snap her neck while she was seizing, or had her body just finally given out? Either way, it didn't seem to matter now. She was dead. There was a dead girl in her lap. An innocent dead girl.

_She's not innocent! _Amanda's internal voice protested. John would be furious if he heard her even suggest otherwise.

"I can't trust any of you. You're on your own," Addison said. She shook her head and turned away, walking into the dark unknown. It was obvious what Addison thought. Daniel looked at Amanda, still needing to cling to someone, no matter who that person was.

"Now we know what we have in common," Amanda said.

"Amanda, I didn't know" he said, pleading for her sympathy.

Suddenly Amanda heard Xavier's voice echoing through the hallways. Hadn't he just abandoned them and sworn to escape on his own? What was he doing calling out for them?

She turned to walk down the hall, the opposite direction of Daniel.

"Please, don't leave me," she heard him beg, but she was too distracted by her curiosity and her own fear. Amanda went a little further down the hall and then saw Xavier, his white shirt splattered in a massive amount of blood, a knife in his hand, and crazy look in his eyes. A look of bloodlust.

"Do. Not. Run," he said.

Amanda's eyes grew wide. She grabbed Daniel's shoulder, and they sprinted away, no direction in mind, just driven by the instinct to escape.

* * *

"This is bullshit. Don't you dare pretend you still care about Amanda," Mark said. John's face never wavered from the monitors. He didn't look afraid. He didn't look furious. He didn't look like he was capable of feeling any emotion at all.

"It appears that there have been unforeseen complications," John said tranquilly.

"I'm out of here," Mark said, his every word a reflection of his internal seething. "I can't take this anymore."

"Not watching while the events unfold will not make the danger go away," John said. At last, his gaze drifted away from Amanda and towards Mark.

"Who said anything about just letting the events unfold?"

"You would be willing to throw away-"

_Here he goes again. Anonymity._

"Yeah," Mark said, cutting him off. He grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard that the room quivered.

If Mark had stayed a moment longer, he would have seen the devil smile.

* * *

At last, Amanda and Daniel made it into the safe room. The large metal safe blocked the only potential path to survival. As Amanda's heart palpitated, her thoughts became clearer. Her priority was to save her and Daniel. She would do it by any means necessary.

After all, she didn't kill a man and escape her reverse bear trap just to be killed by this homicidal thug.

She jerked the spiked club out of Jonas's skull, the first victim of Xavier's violent rampage, then zipped across the room and swung the bat into the wall next to the door, successfully creating a doorstop that would prevent him from entering the room...for a little while. Xavier staggered through the hallway and approached the door moments later. As he beat against the door, Amanda tried to move the safe, so they could get to the underground passage she knew was underneath. Her efforts proved to be futile. The safe refused to budge. Daniel pitched in, not even questioning how she knew it would lead to safety, but even together it seemed they could never move it.

After several attempts they managed to tip the safe over with one tremendous heave and great effort on both their parts. The floor shook for a moment from the force of the impact. Amanda felt along the floor and found the key hole she already knew was there. But where was the damn key?

"Wait...the key. The one we found with the tape recorder," Daniel said.

_No shit, _she thought. The real question was, where was it? She tried to remember, but it was difficult to think as Xavier kept beating against the door, a constant reminder of the danger they were in.

_Who took the key? Who took the key after we left?_

The situation felt hopeless. All she could remember from that room was the horror of Gus's fatal mistake and the now dead Laura's shrieking and Addison's bitching, and Jonas's...Jonas's...

"Jonas!" they said in unison.

Daniel scrambled over to his corpse and, like a cop doing a search and seizure, dug through Jonas's pockets until he confiscated the key.

He threw it over to Amanda. She caught it and inserted it into the keyhole, securing their freedom. For the moment.

* * *

"Damn it," Mark said as he pulled into the driveway. As Amanda inserted the key into the lock to save her life, he took his out of the ignition and stuffed it inside the pocket of his jacket, ready to enter the building and forfeit his life as he knew it to save hers.

_If I do this...I can't go back,_ one side of him thought, the honest, logical side.

_Bullshit. We'll alter the tapes so that I was never there,_ the more devious side reasoned, but the tapes were not what he was most concerned about. He was thinking about Daniel. If he saw Mark, he wouldn't have an explanation for being there. If he was on duty and had somehow discovered where they were, he would have brought a SWAT team in, not come in alone. Daniel was smart, and he'd figure it out instantly. Mark would no doubt be incriminating himself if he went in to save them.

Mark remembered the violent way Xavier crashed the bat into Jonas's skull, and the sick way he stood there and watched Addison's blood gush out of her wrists. Instead of helping her or putting her out of her misery, he sadistically left her there to prolong her suffering. Having Amanda and Daniel become Xavier's next victims was too much to endure. Mark was still trying to cope with how he'd let Seth kill Angelina; he couldn't let another murderer kill people he cared about.

_I can't just sit here and wait for them to die,_ Mark decided.

After a split second of hesitation in which he quickly contemplated all the consequences, he gripped the door handle hard enough so that it left an imprint in his palm, and then he pushed the door open. He got out of his car and ignored the voice inside him that told him to stay out of it, to protect himself first. He unlocked the door, directly breaking John's rules, not that it mattered anyway because almost everyone was dead. He entered the house and took off in the direction they went, but not before he gave the camera a nice view of his middle finger, just in case John was still watching.

**Author's Note: Mark to the rescue! Maybe. Sorry for grammatical errors, I'm editing the best I can under the time constraints of college and trying to update weekly. Notice I said trying.**

**Also, I created an Amanda/Hoffman community because there is a John/Amanda community, and was no Hoffman/Amanda community, and that's just not right! Lol. There HAS to be a community for the hottest Saw couple ever! Please let me know if:**

**You want to be a staff member. (Benefit is you can add stories to the community, including your own, so long as they are Amanda/Hoffman related).**

**You want your story to be added.**

**You know someone else who's story should be added.**


	17. The Survival Instinct

**Timeline: Right after the last chapter**

**Rating: R for gore**

**Chapter 16**

**The Survival Instinct**

"**The jigsaw piece that I cut from my subjects was only ever meant to be a symbol that that subject was missing something. A vital piece of the human puzzle. The survival instinct." -Jigsaw, _Saw II_**

"_A lot of shit could go wrong, Amanda. In fact, I would be stunned if nothing went wrong. John's a lunatic or an idiot, or both."_

She couldn't get Mark's condescending nagging out of her head. She wanted to smack him, even though he wasn't really lecturing her at the moment. That particular argument had taken place days before. One of many they'd had over the course of several weeks. Amanda couldn't help but hope that it wouldn't be the last. Her side ached as she forced herself to keep going. A sharp spasm of pain attacked her abdomen as she panted for air. It was one of the spots where a needle had punctured her. Her body begged for respite, but her will was too strong to oblige. Daniel was the one who nearly collapsed to the floor, tired and defeated.

_Weakling!_ Her mind accused. Now it was John she heard, his voice echoing as though he were just a few feet away, telling her about natural selection, how humans have lost their edge, lost their instinct for survival.

"_This is survival of the fittest at it's finest moment," _John chuckled.

_Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!_ she mentally chanted, silencing the raspy voice.

"Come on!" Amanda yelled, refusing to permit Daniel to give up just yet. She tugged his arm, pulling his exhausted body upwards.

"God damn it, get on your feet!" Amanda yelled. She yanked his shirt again. He reluctantly dragged on. At the pace they were going, Xavier would soon catch up with them. Her heart pulsated harder as the fear generated more adrenaline within her. Then her breath caught in her throat, and her ferociously beating heart nearly stopped for just a moment as they approached a very familiar door.

Amanda could hear Adam's muffled screams against the plastic pressed against his face. She could see the vaporization against the material, the evidence of his last breath. His corpse remained behind that door, and every part of her wanted to turn and run the other direction, even if it meant certain death.

_How's that for a survival instinct, John?_

Instead, she heaved the door open, exposing them to the disgusting stench of the bathroom. She flipped the light switch. The bulbs flickered on asynchronously, one row of florescent lights coming to life almost immediately after the previous row, like the introduction of a grand theater performance. Only instead of a star entertainer, the lights revealed two lifeless bodies, deprived of proper burial, decaying in the repulsive bathroom that was in a state of decay itself. The sight of them wasn't as horrifying as the smell. It was the furnace trap all over again. Amanda choked on the stench, then mustered up the strength to close the door. Daniel glanced around the room in absolute horror and shock. The blood soaked floor, the rusty saw blade, the tape recorder, and the shards of mirror scattered all over the floor reminded Amanda of that dreadful day. Their voices echoed in her head, as loud as if they were still alive in the room with her. She covered her mouth to suppress a scream.

_My name is very fucking confused, what's your name?_

_He doesn't want us to cut through our chains. He wants us to cut through our feet..._

_Oh my god! Lawrence...No! No! Don't..._

Daniel, completely oblivious to the screaming voices in Amanda's head, backed against the grimy wall and collapsed. The hacksaw appeared in his peripheral vision. His desperate and confused eyes lit up with hope for just a second.

"Amanda...I have an idea," he choked. Before he could fully explain, they heard Xavier's foreboding stomping as he tread towards the door.

"Pretend I'm dead," Daniel said. "I'll do the rest." He slouched beside the pipe opposite Amanda. His head leaned against the cold steel. She looked at him and thought that his face seemed pale enough to convince someone he had died.

Xavier's twisted laughter proceeded his entrance into the room. He staggered inside, his equilibrium becoming more distorted as time passed. He was as unbalanced as a gambler's checkbook. He leaned against the wall for stability. He waved the knife around. It served as a morbid greeting and a silent reminder of his power over them. The nonverbal threat made Amanda's shiver with fear. She felt paralyzed and freezing, as though her spine had been replaced with an icicle.

It took all her courage to look up at Xavier and whisper, "He's gone."

"It doesn't matter," he said, shrugging indifferently. "All I want is the number on the back of his neck. And then yours," he said, pointing the blade at Amanda.

They had come to a dead end. She was just going to be another corpse in the bathroom after Xavier finished with her. She wondered briefly if John would give her a proper burial or leave her in that room to rot with everyone else as just another failed test subject.

_No! I won't fail! _

She imagined Xavier gutting her like a hunter's wild game for the sheer sadistic enjoyment of it.

_Keep him talking, Amanda. Make a deal with him. Anything to delay the inevitable._

"You still don't know your own number. How are you going to get it if I don't tell you?"

He looked dumbstruck for a moment. Then he turned around, looking for the mirror that Adam had smashed to pieces months ago. He touched the wall in disbelief. Then he glanced at the knife in his hand. He descended the blade behind his head, groping around the back of his neck.

_No. No, he can't possibly..._

Xavier stood up straight, looking towards the ceiling, bracing himself for what he was determined to do. He looked like a man praying to God, if only the omnipotent being hadn't given up on him and everyone else in the house of Jigsaw long ago.

Then he reached behind his head again and buried the knife into the back of his neck. The edge of the blade had weathered with time, so he had to apply more pressure to force it through the skin. He screamed as the pointed tip penetrated him deeper, yet he knew he couldn't stop until the skin was completely removed. He couldn't think about the ramifications of cutting too deeply and killing or paralyzing himself. He needed the number, that single digit that would play a role in saving his life. The tip of the knife burrowed into his open wound as he ripped the last piece of epidermis away, freeing the flimsy chunk of flesh that he needed. He gave Amanda a malicious and self-satisfied smile. He looked at the number and tucked it in his pocket.

Amanda tried to scoot backwards, but she was already pressed against the wall.

_Game Over, Amanda,_ she thought. As he walked closer towards her, she instinctively darted away from Xavier, not caring if he got to Daniel first, just listening to her body's instinct that urged her in the direction of self-preservation.

Apparently Daniel was in tune with his own instincts, because he kicked Xavier in the leg as Amanda distracted him. Caught completely by surprise, he bend over, trying not to collapse. The poison pumping through his veins muddled his reaction time drastically. Before he could retaliate, Daniel had already grabbed the hacksaw and lifted it towards his neck. With one quick swipe, he sliced Xavier's throat. He fell to his knees, trying to apply pressure to the wound. The blood spewed out like a hole in a hose going full blast. No amount of pressure could cease the blood flow. It squirted everywhere. He grabbed Daniel's shirt with his bloody hand in either a futile attempt for help or revenge. Daniel shirked away, backing into Amanda, who was clutching him in panic and shock. She could feel Daniel quiver with fear and tears that streamed down his face as he watched Xavier collapse, and then flail helplessly on the ground, twisting and writhing in pain. A dark red puddle of blood formed around the gash in his throat. He stopped moving. His arms went limp at his side. His head fell back against the floor with a thud. The shock wore off of his face and his expression became relaxed and neutral. His mind descended into nothingness forever. If an afterlife existed, Xavier had now gotten on the waiting list for hell.

Daniel stood splattered in the blood from Xavier's fatal wound.

"What have I done?" Daniel whimpered. He dropped the hacksaw on the floor and looked at Amanda for answers. After a long pause in which she tried to gather her senses, she turned Daniel away from the newest victim of this house and towards herself.

"You did what you had to in order to survive. No one can blame you for that," Amanda said, attempting to provide some comfort.

_I know the feeling..._she thought, remembering her own game in the reverse bear trap.

"I...I cut his throat," Daniel said, still in denial. His conscious fought to understand what he'd just done. The gravity of his actions sunk in. His eyes darted around wildly, as though he had just begun hearing the voices that Amanda struggled to ignore. Everywhere he looked, blood and human remains reminded him of the blood spewing out of Xavier's throat in his final moments.

"Daniel, it's not your fault. He didn't follow the rules."

"Fuck the rules," Daniel yelled. "The psycho that put us here doesn't care about any rules. He just wants us to kill each other! And we just gave in..."

"He wants us to survive!" Amanda said. "Why don't you understand? It's a game. He's trying to help us!"

Her body stiffened in repressed anger. She could feel her words, body gestures, and facial expressions giving her secret away, but she couldn't help but defend him. It was all she knew. The thought of slandering John, of calling him a murderer and forsaking her creed for even a moment, would be surrendering to the possibility that Daniel was right. The possibility that everything she'd now devoted her life to was a lie, that John was a sinner under the pretense of a savior, and that she was no better. Daniel's accusations were wrong because to Amanda, they simply had to be.

"Help us?" Daniel said. His eyes quickly surveyed the carnage around them, and he shook his head in response, as though trying to shake away Amanda's words. He instinctively backed away from her. He opened his arms to emphasize their surroundings like a real estate agent at a showing. His gesture begged her to explain how she could justify her response.

"We have a chance to survive this. To walk away changed. Grateful. Redeemed.," she said, paraphrasing her idol.

"Did _they_?" he asked, shifting his eyes from Amanda to the bodies on the floor.

"They had a chance," she said. Amanda's head tilted defiantly as she spoke, daring him to disagree.

"Quit defending this jerk!" Daniel yelled. They stared at each other. Xavier's blood had not even finished oozing out of his body, and they were already turning against each other. He had left an aura of fear and mistrust in his demise.

"You don't know if they had a chance!" he said. "How could you possibly know? Unless..." he said, his voice trailing off, the silence an accusation in itself.

"How did you know where to find the recorder?" he said.

"What?" Amanda's hazel eyes bulged with surprise.

"In the first room. The room we woke up in. How did you know where the recorder was?"

"I...I stumbled across it," Amanda stuttered.

"I think there's more to it than that. Jonas was on to something. Why aren't we sick, Amanda? Why aren't we coughing up blood? Why did you instantly know there was a room under the safe?"

Amanda never anticipated an interrogation from meek, quiet Daniel. Her mouth gaped open stupidly like a fish. She couldn't offer a single answer. Paranoia festered inside of Daniel. Her eyes darted to the hacksaw still within Daniel's reach. As though reading her mind, he scooped it up. Fueled with adrenaline and panic, Daniel clinched the handle with so much force that the loose rust ingrained itself in his skin. He held it up menacingly at Amanda. She leaned against the dirty wall. Slime coated her arm, but she didn't notice until she felt herself slipping against the unctuous surface. She clutched one of the pipes to prevent herself from falling on top of Zep's rotting corpse.

"Amanda, I want the truth!" Daniel yelled.

_Liar! You're a liar!_

She heard Dr. Gordon screaming. She shook her head, mentally blocking out the auditory hallucinations that escalated in volume every moment, drowning out Daniel's demands and Amanda's stream of thoughts.

"Daniel, please," Amanda said. "Don't...don't..."

Her side throbbed with pain as she began hyperventilating. It felt like the needles were swimming through her veins, tearing apart her insides. The man who hurt her died, but the suffering he inflicted on her lingered. One of Amanda's hands gripped the pipe tighter, both to steady her body and her nerves, while the other clutched her side. Her eyes darted from the hacksaw in Daniel's trembling hand to his hardened face, then her eyes swept over to Xavier's body. She realized for the first time that she'd survived Xavier's rampage, but she had no idea what Daniel was capable of.

"Daniel," she whimpered, tilting her head to the side and pleading with her eyes like a wounded animal. She held up her hand to show Daniel the blood from the holes in her body.

"You were there. You saw how helpless I was. How can you even think about suspecting me?"

Daniel sighed deeply, his shoulders rising and falling as he shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. He lowered the hacksaw and dropped it onto the floor. It clanked against the tile.

"I'm sorry," he said. He stood there looking as helpless as she felt. Amanda looked down and sighed in relief. Then she heard a gasping sound, followed by the sound of choking. For an instant she imagined it was just another memory invading her mind, but when her head darted upwards, she saw Mark restraining Daniel in a choke hold, a syringe in one hand aimed at Daniel's neck, while the other arm held him pressed against Mark's chest, so he couldn't turn around and see his face. Daniel initially struggled, trying to pull out of Mark's grasp. He clawed at Mark's arms, inflicting nail marks in his skin. Eventually he succumbed to the drug. His body twitched and jerked, then he sank against Mark's chest, collapsing in his arms. Amanda gasped.

"He wasn't going to hurt me!"

"Relax," Mark said, holding Daniel's limp body upright as he spoke. "It's just a sedative."

Amanda sighed. The shock of Mark's presence waned quickly.

"You carry those syringes around in your pockets like they're tic-tacs."

"No," Mark chuckled, "John sure does though. You have to admit they come in handy sometimes."

She winced in pain. Mark looked concerned, his attention immediately shifting from Daniel to Amanda.

"What are you even doing here anyway?" Amanda asked.

"Saving you," he grumbled. "I expected a little more gratitude..."

"You could have been caught!" she said. "If Daniel hadn't been looking at me when you walked in..."

"Unbelievable," he said. "I risk my life to come to your aid, and I get a lecture instead of a thank you."

"Well, you're a little late to be the hero." She nodded her head in the direction of Xavier's body.

"Damn. What happened to him?"

"Daniel found his inner survival instinct," Amanda said, smiling through the pain.

"Won't Eric be proud," he said, shaking his head. He hoisted Daniel's body over his shoulder as though he weighed nothing. He was going to carry him out effortlessly, like a towel draped over his shoulder.

"I'm going to take Daniel to the car. Do you need me to come back to help you?"

"No," she said, grimacing both from physical agony and the thought of asking him for a favor, thus revealing how weak and helpless she felt.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said with a smirk. "I'll come back." He turned around and began walking towards the exit. Amanda gazed around at the bodies. Zep's gaping mouth emitted a nightmarish silent scream. Their voices still reverberated in the damp atmosphere.

_You're too late! _

_I have to go get help, or I'm going to bleed to death..._

_Are we gonna be okay?_

_I wouldn't lie to you._

"Wait, don't leave me in here!" she shrieked. Mark stopped in his tracks. He looked around the bathroom and nodded his head in understanding.

"Okay, I'll take you out and leave him here for now. Not like he'll know the difference." He laid Daniel down on the ground, carefully positioning him away from all the blood and corpses. Mark walked towards Amanda. He flinched in surprise when she clutched him tightly, wrapping both arms around him to support herself. She buried her face in his shoulder to block out the horrors surrounding them. After the initial shock wore off, he placed a hand on her back. He remained gentle, wary of pressing against her wounds and causing her even more pain. She murmured against his neck. He couldn't decipher what she was saying. It sounded like a "Thank you," but he couldn't be sure that wasn't just wishful thinking. Then the tingling sensation on his neck from her whispering was replaced with the moisture of her tears.

"Let's get out of here," he said. Mark slipped a hand under her thigh and lifted her up, sliding his arm under her knees and the other beneath her shoulder blades.

"Put me down!" she shouted, but didn't attempt to resist. Nothing seemed worth the effort. "I asked you to help me, not carry me like I'm a baby or a crippled."

"But you are a crippled," he protested."And a baby."

"Shut up," she groaned. He smirked. Her little tantrum amused him. Mark glanced at Dr. Gordon's foot.

"Would you rather I put you down and let you _limp _out of here? It would take longer, and it would be more stressful on your body."

She wanted to continue arguing. It felt familiar to be bickering with Mark, and thus comforting, but she realized he had a legitimate point. The mere thought of climbing up the stairs seemed impossible.

"Fine. I'll let you carry me out, but no gloating. Now, or later."

"Thank you for complying...finally."

"At least now you get to play the hero," she muttered as Mark carried her out of the horrific room that had been the source of more than one haunting nightmare.

She pulled herself closer to him when they approached the steps, fearful that he would accidentally drop her. They remained wordless the entire way to the car. Once they approached Mark's vehicle, he eased her out of his arms and helped her get on her feet. She leaned against the fender as he reached for the door handle. He glanced at her. She was filthy and sweaty from her adventure. He tried to keep a straight face as he said, "I should really lay down some newspapers or sheets before I let you in..."

She smacked his arm.

"Jerk! Being nice to me didn't last long! Glad to see you're back to being your usual infuriating self," she said. She tried to sound playful, but she meant every word. He opened the door and motioned for her to enter.

"Get in. I'll just douse the interior with Febreze later."

She smiled. It felt good to be teased again. Now that she escaped the house, everything looked brighter. Hope was no longer a futile dream. Mark turned around to reenter the house for the unconscious teenage boy that was still laying among corpses in the grotesque underground bathroom.

"Mark," she called. Her mere voice calling out to him brought him to an immediate halt. He turned around in her direction.

"Yes?" he said.

"I didn't really think I was going to see you again," she said. She bit her lower lip. "I'll glad I did."

Amanda's checks turned a bashful tint of crimson. Her words brought an instant smile to his face. Mark wasn't sure what he should say, so he opted not to speak at all. He trudged back towards the house, mentally wary of having to return to the bathroom to retrieve Daniel. Once he disappeared into the house, she thought about what she had said and cringed, feeling stupid and impulsive. He hadn't even dignified her with a response. Maybe he thought she was irrational because of the trauma she had just endured. Then she remembered his smile that wasn't twisted with sarcasm or self-superiority. It wasn't the smug smile that had become his default expression anytime he teased or ridiculed her. This time, he flashed her a pure and genuine smile. She visualized that brief moment of tenderness over and over again in her mind. The repetition and the warm feeling it generated within her eased her into sleep before Mark returned with Daniel.

**Author's Note: Special thanks to Kalika Barlow for editing this chapter. Thank you SO much! It really helped me. Did you hear that everyone?**

***Amanda voice* **

"**_She helped me."_ **


	18. Eric's Game

**Timeline: Hours later**

**Rating: PG-13 for mild violence**

**Chapter 17**

**Eric's Game**

"**Seems to me that the knowledge of your sons impending death is causing you to act... Why is it that we're only willing to do that, when a life is at stake?" -Jigsaw, **_**Saw II**_

Amanda smiled as she set Daniel on the ground, gladly relinquishing him from her custody and into John's care. His limp body sprawled out over the floor, and John simply nodded before returning his concentration back to his latest work.

"You know what to do next," he said, not turning his head away from his blueprints. He seemed unable to deviate his attention from it for long, like an artist enthralled in his greatest masterpiece.

"What's that?" Amanda asked, stepping over Daniel like a small hurdle.

"I'm only in the beginning stages of design," he said, showing no indication of elaborating. Then he paused and added, "I've revised it several times this week. The final design seems constantly out of my reach. It's…frustrating," he said, his voice calm, contrasting with his confession of emotion.

"Is it special?" she asked, tilting her head away from the rough sketches and toward John's tired face.

"They're all special in one way or another," he said. "Unique. Each specifically designed for the rehabilitation of the particular test subject."

"Do you have a subject in mind for this one?" she asked, slanting her head to get a different perspective of the drawing. John had sketched the framework of a head contraption with gears, bolts, and several pieces of metal protruding in the front. Amanda knew her own experience impaired her opinion, but as she glanced over at the reverse bear trap sitting on a table across the room, she couldn't help but notice many similarities between that device and the drawing. The design looked like an updated version with adjustments.

"Not yet," John replied.

"Maybe that's why you can't figure out exactly how it should work."

John's eyes lit up, shunning away the exhaustion and sickness that was there before. She could see that she had generated some mild epiphany, and it pleased her.

"Perhaps you're right," he said. He slid the papers away from him and swirled his chair around to face her and Daniel completely.

"Put him in the safe. It's time to start Eric's game."

"Yes," she said. She braced herself for the strain of lifting and carrying Daniel across the room. Somehow he seemed even heavier than before. She winced as she lifted Daniel's body and nearly dropped him from the sudden burden of his weight against her injuries. She slid her arms under his armpits and dragged him across the room instead of attempting to lift him again. If John noticed her struggling, he didn't show any indication of concern.

Amanda placed Daniel in the safe and then lifted his legs one after the other into the small container as gently as a mother strapping her son into a car seat. She touched his check softly and said a mental farewell to him, wishing him the best while knowing that his future would probably be quite bleak.

After her silent goodbye, she left John to his work. She shut the door and collapsed on a nearby chair, pressing her hand against her side in a futile attempt to soothe the pain of the puncture wounds. Mark emerged from the shadows veiling his presence, as though Amanda didn't already know he was outside the door waiting the entire time.

"So you're not okay after all," he said, with a smirk.

"I'm fine," she grumbled.

"You're fine enough to carry Daniel into the room and pretend you carried him from the bathroom yourself, but not fine enough to do whatever it is that John wants you to do next."

"I can handle it," she said.

"Isn't that what you said about the last game? The one you nearly died in? The one that left you like this?" he said, pointing to her injuries.

She groaned.

"See?" he said. "I can tell when you're in pain."

"The only pain I'm dealing with right now is _you_," she snapped. "Get off my case. John asked me to do something for him, so I'm going to do it."

Mark's eyes protested louder than his words could, intensely drilling into hers, coaxing her into taking his advice and understanding his concern. The small dents around the edges of his mouth deepened into a frown. She leaned back as far as the stiff chair would allow, looked up into his eyes and said, "I appreciate what you did for me, but I'm fine."

"Can you at least tell me what the next step in John's plan is?"

"Why do you even ask? You know I can't tell you. John will let you know if he wants you to know."

"I know John doesn't want me involved in Eric's game, but I'm not letting you do this alone. You're not going to kidnap Eric. It's dangerous enough when you're in good condition, but now that you're hurt it's twice as dangerous."

"You would kidnap one of your own friends on my behalf?" she asked. She raised an eyebrow and smirked skeptically.

"It doesn't make a difference who kidnaps him. He's still going to be tested, and there's nothing I can do about that, but at least I can prevent you from getting hurt in the process, he said, looking down into her eyes with obvious concern.

"I'm not going to kidnap Eric Matthews," she said.

"What?" Mark said. "Then how are you going to get him here? John certainly can't do it alone."

"Eric Matthews is going to come to us." She smiled.

"How?"

"Ask him," she said, her head tilting in the direction she had just come from. Mark's glare intensified as every uncomfortable second drifted by. He crossed his arms and said, "You're really going to force me to coax the information out of John?"

She continued smiling, her silence answering the question.

It was his turn to groan.

* * *

"He asked me to be your backup in case something goes wrong," he said, paraphrasing John's comments and intentionally excluding the part about _permission, _the word synonymous with subordinance and weakness in Mark's mind. "Let me get the first aid kit and fix you up before we leave."

She turned around to look for the medical kit in the drawer beside her. She rummaged around through all the junk, but couldn't locate it.

"Have you ever been anyone's back up before?" she asked absentmindedly, still searching. As she spoke, she felt Mark's presence right behind her, his warmth pressing against her without actual physical contact. She immediately blushed crimson at her particular inconvenient choice of words.

"It's been awhile," he said as he reached into the drawer, his pelvic region pressing against her back and his arm grazing her shoulder as he clutched the first aid kit. Rather than spin around and face being pinned between him and the table, she scooted to the side, away from him and the white box containing the gauze and antiseptic she needed. He smiled at her obvious discomfort.

"When I was inexperienced, I used to do back up all the time, but not anymore. It's administrative duties now, and some investigation on major cases that make it into the department. Every now and then I get the satisfaction of bringing someone down that truly deserves it."

"Would you get satisfaction from bringing me down?" she said, her checks burning a cranberry color now. "You know, if John wasn't blackmailing you."

She sat down in the chair next to him, and he began cleaning her wounds with alcohol and other antiseptics. She yelped from the pain and he gently blew on her wound for a moment to dull the stinging. At first it didn't bother her because it was merely a solution to the ache, but once the pain subsided, his breath against her skin made her squirm, especially when he finished cleaning the wounds on her arm and moved on to the ones on the side of her abdomen where she was more sensitive. The small gust of air coming from his full lips became a warm whisper on her flesh. He looked up at her and finally answered her question.

"No."

It took her nearly a minute to recall what she'd even asked him.

"Why not?" she inquired at last, after regaining her senses.

He paused, hesitating with his words. Then he smirked and said, "I get _satisfaction_ from you in other ways."

The red tint in her cheeks turned brighter and spread further. She couldn't utter a single word. Her thoughts were wrapped around the insinuation in his voice. Mark continued speaking, pleased that he'd left her speechless.

"For instance, I get satisfaction from watching you turn all shades of crimson whenever I say anything that could even remotely be misinterpreted as something…"

He leaned in close to her neck as he wrapped the final piece of gauze around one of her wounds. The tips of his fingers brushed against a part of her skin not tampered with pain.

".._sensual_."

A slight quiver spiked through her, visually unobtrusive, but obvious to Mark because he felt the brief vibration under his hand. He remembered the first time they met, how she'd teased him into arousal so quickly, and yet he could feel her becoming excited simultaneously. It felt like they'd switched roles completely, and it both excited and pleased him.

"Shut up," she mumbled, even though everything he said was truth. Although at the moment Amanda longed for him to continue talking to her in the husky, low voice he'd adopted that was complete aural pleasure, she hated being toyed with. She wished he'd stop sending subtle hints that surly meant nothing…that would merely lead nowhere.

_Stop it, Mark. Just stop talking...but don't. Please don't. God, he could read out of a freaking dictionary in that tone of voice and still make me hot…_

"Besides, I wouldn't turn you in because you're as much a victim as a criminal anyway. Remember what I told you about Stockholm Syndrome?" he said, reverting to an almost clinical tone, stripping away the sensuality with seriousness. It was as though someone had flipped the channel in Amanda's brain from porn to a medical show. She rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"Here we go again," she said, more content with the explanation that made her blush than the logical psychoanalytic response.

"Nevermind. Anyway, we're done," he said, tossing the remnants of gauze into the medial box. "I have to stop by the department for a few hours before I can check on you and your situation."

"We have to hurry so no one starts looking for Daniel," Amanda said, trying to put a little pressure on the time constraints, so Mark would meet her at the trap house sooner. Amanda secretly despised the idea of waiting alone in the dark with the rotting corpses and the smell they emitted.

"I don't have to hurry that much," he said. "Eric's furious with him."

"So much that he wouldn't even notice if his son went missing?" Amanda asked.

"_He's probably got half the city right now looking for me, just so he can kick my ass for disappearing on him." _Amanda remembered Daniel's trembling voice, scared to his core but faithfully believing his father would come through when it mattered.

"Maybe," Mark said. "I doubt he'd really hold a grudge on Daniel for long. Eric's usually all bark and no bite."

"I remember overhearing you tell John that you're just like Eric. Are you all bark and no bite too, Detective?" Amanda asked, smiling when she saw it was Mark's turn to blush.

"First of all," he said in his defense, "You didn't overhear, you were eavesdropping."

"It's a subtle difference," Amanda said, her smile expanding.

"No, it's a euphemism for spying. Anyway, what I meant was that Eric and I lead very similar lives."

"Oh. You still didn't answer my question."

"Well, Amanda. I'm interested in knowing what you think."

"I don't think you have any bite," she said, looking up at him with unwavering eyes.

"We'll see," he said, rising from the chair and grabbing his coat. He turned to leave and then stopped. He began rummaging around in his jacket and pulled something out, offering it to Amanda.

"By the way, take this," he said. She took the small blue bottle and read the label: _Vick's Vapor Rub._ He noticed her confusion when she looked at the bottle and then reverted her gaze back to him, waiting for an explanation.

"It's for the smell," he clarified. "When you go back into the bathroom."

"Oh, of course," she said, feeling like an idiot. Then she smiled. "That's thoughtful. Thanks, Detective."

"Mark," he corrected, a wasted effort. 'Detective' was starting to stick, either as a pet name or a taunt, he couldn't be sure. Although since it came from Amanda, he thought it very likely she meant both. She stood up and walked out the door without correcting herself. Mark shook his head and grabbed his car keys, ready to get his task over with, so he could look out for Amanda and make sure she didn't ruin her bandages or have another panic episode in the bathroom. He wondered for a moment if she could also hear the screaming voices of the Jigsaw victims whenever she entered that room.

_How could she not?_ He mused, walking out of the room, but glancing back once at the instigator of all this grief, shielded physically in his workshop and mentally in his designs and philosophy.

* * *

Amanda felt so exhausted, she worried she might fall asleep waiting for Eric to enter, but her worrying proved to be pointless. Despite Mark's little gift masking the odor and allowing her to breathe the air without nausea, the cramped bathtub combined with her barely healed wounds made her too uncomfortable to rest. She felt like an abused animal trapped in a negligent shelter, battered and furious, waiting to strike out against anything that dared to come close to her. When Eric finally did enter, it felt almost surreal. The moment she'd waited hours for, prepared weeks for, had come.

"Daniel! No…no…" he said, seeing Amanda's finger and mistaking it for Daniel.

He approached the bathtub, bracing himself for the sight of his son, possibly injured or even dead. Instead Amanda greeted him with wild, animalistic screams as she punctured his neck with the syringe.

"You…?"

The drug pumped through him, bringing him down just like it did to Daniel.

_Like father, like son._

Amanda yanked the needle out carelessly. The thought of him waking up with a nasty bruise made her smile slightly. She tried not to think of Daniel's reaction, of him waking up right about now, disoriented and confused, fatherless and scared. No, she wouldn't let guilt ruin this perfect moment.

_He took my freedom…and now I'm taking his. Eye for an eye, _she reasoned.

"It's about time you got here," Amanda said as Mark walked in after Eric. His flashlight shined in her face, making her squint. "Oh, that's so fucking annoying. Do all cops have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Shine a light in your eyes like they're a doctor checking for retina damage."

"Sorry," he said, lowering the light and pointing it towards Eric's body slumped over against the bathtub.

"I see that you took your sweet time getting here," she said.

"I didn't want to rush off from the department right away. I wanted to secure an alibi."

"Good to know," she snapped. "Whatever. Help me drag his body over here, so I can shackle him."

"I was following him through the hallways to make sure he didn't turn back," Mark explained with a growl. _Ungrateful little…_

"Okay, okay!" she said, throwing her arms up in the air, a gesture wasted in the darkness. It also caused her a brief moment of pain to move so suddenly. She grimaced and was glad the absence of light hid her weakness. "I get it, Mark. You're not entirely useless. Now help me drag the body. He weighs a ton."

Mark grabbed Eric under his arms and pulled him over to the shackle. He snapped it over Eric's ankle, saying a silent apology he didn't dare verbalize in front of Amanda. He looked over at her, despite barely being able to see an outline of her figure.

"Did you bring the tape?"

"Yes," she said. She handed it to him, and he slipped it in the tape recorder. He left it within reach of Eric and stood up.

"How's John?" Amanda asked.

"A little roughed up, but he'll be okay," he said. He didn't elaborate because he felt that Amanda didn't need to know the extent of John's injures at the moment. She needed to focus on her own. "I'm going to take John somewhere to rest, then I'll come back to check on things. I take it you can finish up here if you need to?"

"Yeah," she said. "I can take care of it."

Mark left. Amanda looked around the dingy room, less intimidating with most of it concealed by darkness. At least she couldn't hear the screaming voices, accusing and frantic. She looked at Eric. Anger bursted through her as she remembered what Mark said about Eric attacking John.

"You haven't changed a bit. You're exactly as I remember you," she said, thinking back to that day when Eric planted drugs on her and didn't hesitate to smack her around when she protested to his accusations during arrest.

_Don't you talk back to me, you bitch. I'm a cop, and you're a fucking junkie with zero credibility. You know what that means? You're at my mercy._

She kicked the recorder a little further away from him out of petty spite.

"I'm gonna stick around," she whispered to Eric, "Because I want to watch your expression when you wake up, scared and confused, and at _my_ mercy."

She smiled, and waited.

* * *

"Game Over," she said as the tape reached its end. She'd said everything she wanted to say on that tape. It was cathartic and refreshing, like the conclusion of a successful therapy session. No, it was actually far better than those crappy group therapy meetings. It was justice.

She shoved the door closed and strolled away feeling elated. She heard his screams cease altogether. She decided he may have passed out from shock. The thought plastered an even wider smile on her lips. A few minutes later it wiped away as quickly as it formed when she heard him scream again, much louder and closer than before.

She halted midstep, frozen in disbelief. She could hear Eric, and worse, she could hear Xavier channeling through him, that same pissed off, cut throat rage with a limitless thirst for revenge…

She retreated into a niche in the hallway and waited, covering her mouth to stifle a scream.

"I'm gonna kill you! Do you hear me?" he yelled.

The sharp sound of the metal pole he utilized like a cane hitting against the ground alerted her to his approximate location, like a bell tied around a kitten's collar. She listened intently and followed him, hoping to ambush him or at least slide past him and get out. She kept moving until she could no longer hear him. She crept forward, slower than before, trying to find him despite the dimness. She didn't even see Eric until he had already smacked her against the chest with the pole and knocked her backwards.

"I'm gonna fucking _kill_ you!" he screamed. He tried to hit her again, but instead he clobbered one of the pipes running along the wall. Steam sprayed into his eyes, burning and blinding him. He recuperated faster than Amanda, who was still slumped over on the floor. She attempted to rise up, and he smacked her back onto the ground, striking the metal pole against her shoulder blades. Eric tried to stand and applied too much pressure to his broken foot. He felt a large bone snap before he collapsed onto the floor. Amanda tried to scamper away, but Eric crawled after her, pulling her legs to keep her from escaping. He sunk his teeth into her calf, and she screamed. The intensity of the pain as well as the dust and blood caught in her throat made her voice sound raspy and animalistic.

Before she could retaliate, he grabbed her and thrusted her upwards, only to knock her down with a brutal punch to her jaw. Then he grabbed both her shoulders and slammed her head into the wall.

"Where's my son?"

Her eyes closed. Her body throbbed with pain from new and old wounds. Holding her by the back of her jacket, he smashed her head into the wall again. Blood concealed half of her face in red streaks, the salty liquid pouring into her mouth and down her throat as he tilted her head backwards.

"Where is he, you junkie bitch?"

"Fuck you," she whispered, the blood spraying out of her mouth as she spoke. He bashed her head against the wall repeatedly, each assault more vigorous and furious than before.

"WHERE IS HE?" Eric screamed.

She spit her blood in his face. He responded by throwing her entire body against the wall several times, before allowing her to collapse onto the ground.

"Tell me where he is!" Eric said, removing his knife from his jeans, reminding her of Xavier. A part of Amanda wanted to freak out as she remembered that psycho killer, but a greater part of her was so consumed with hatred that she didn't go into shock. She needed to fight back. She needed to hurt him where it mattered.

"Right here," Amanda said, and she kicked Eric right in his broken foot. He cried out in pain as he tumbled down on the ground. Amanda took advantage of the opportunity to crawl away. She used one of the small pipes on the wall to help her stand. She walked towards the staircase, the light shining down from above never looking so tempting and divine as it did in that moment.

"You're nothing bitch! You're _nothing!_"

She kept walking, in far too much pain herself to enjoy the pain she inflicted on Eric.

"You're not Jigsaw, bitch!" he yelled.

She stopped. Her head and neck twisted around, her shoulder remaining in place. Her anger rose up to the surface, eliminating all pain and replacing it with pure hatred.

_How dare he! That motherfucker! He doesn't even understand Jigsaw. _He had no concept of what she'd been through, what she'd endured to get to this moment. He had no idea the significance of John choosing _her_ to carry on his legacy. She had a purpose now. John had instilled meaning in her life. She had been reborn. Nothing Eric could say could strip her of that.

But it sure pissed her off anyway.

She turned around, planning on inflicting a little more torture before making her way upstairs, Eric's metal pole or knife being her ideal objects of choice, but her body had other plans. She fell to her knees, her physical entity begging her to stop exerting herself and pleading her to fall into respite. She thought for a moment that she might pass out.

"You're not Jigsaw," Eric continued to moan. "You're not Jigsaw."

_It's the only retaliation this pathetic bastard has left,_ she thought. She stood and slowly limped over towards him. Her body refused to cooperate when she placed her hand on the pole and tried to lift it. She couldn't find the knife in the darkness; it had gotten lost in the struggle. Accepting her body's limitations, she turned to Eric and used her last weapon, her ability to lie.

"Daniel's dead," she whispered cruelly. "He didn't make it."

"You bitch! You lying bitch!" he moaned. The blood on her face slid into the crack in her lips as she formed a sadistic smile, made even more malicious in the dim lighting.

"You're lying!" he yelled again as she turned to ascend the staircase, leaving him to wonder if she was telling the truth or not. As Amanda reached the top of the stairs, she heard a familiar voice yell out in alarm.

"What the fuck happened?"

"What do you think, Mark?" she spat at him.

"Oh my God," he said. He sprinted over to her, yet hesitated to touch her in fear of hurting her worse. He had no idea what areas, if any, were not tainted by soreness or injury.

"Could you stop staring at me and do something useful?" she snapped.

"Can you walk to the car?" he asked. He raised his hand like he was going to place it somewhere on her to support her, but it remained suspended in the air as he remained undecided where it was safe to touch. His voice was quick and full of panic, a tone she didn't recognize.

"Fuck. My head fucking hurts," she moaned. She leaned against him, forcing him to hold her upright. She whimpered.

"Goddamn it. I'm going to kill him," Mark said.

"Don't," she moaned. He looked at her puzzled.

"Just help me first. Let him stay down there and suffer."

"How did he escape and manage to do this to you anyway?" Mark asked, his voice thick with concern. "He was shacked to the pipe. Shouldn't he be weak from blood loss?"

"He smashed his foot with something to get out. It was broken."

Mark paused for a moment. _That clever bastard. He _is_ resourceful…_

His admiration was short lived. He felt nauseous even thinking about Eric doing this to Amanda. Even under the circumstances, it made his stomach turn. Every memory of Eric's brutality flashed in Mark's mind, and the thought of that bastard turning his rage against Amanda made him want to walk down the stairs and finish him off for her.

"Help me, Mark," she whimpered, still supported by Mark's arms. "I feel…dizzy. I can't…"

She closed her eyes and her head rolled onto his chest, the fabric of his shirt soaking up some of the blood on her face. He lifted her up and carried her to the car. Her eyes closed, but he knew she was still conscious because of a slight groan he heard every time she shifted against him in pain.

"Mark," she moaned. "Mark…"

"Shhh…I'm right here. You're going to be okay."

"Mark…" she whispered in his chest. "Make that bastard pay. Make him pay."

He smiled at her words. How could he expect anything else from Amanda?

* * *

Hours later, after Mark cleaned Amanda's injuries and promised her he'd make sure Eric paid dearly for what he did, he descended the staircase and found Eric lying on the ground, his head slumped against the wall. The sound of his footsteps alerted Eric, bringing him out of much needed sleep. His eyes squinted, trying to identify the man before him.

"Mark…how'd you get here?" he asked, confused.

"Hello, Eric," he said, trying to forget that this was his friend, his one and only real friend, and at the same time, wanting to think of him as human and not a deranged man assaulting Amanda.

"We have to get him…We have to get Jigsaw before he gets away. We have to find Daniel. Where's Daniel? We gotta find him…He's gotta be around her somewhere…"

"You're not going to find him," Mark said.

"We're going to find him," Eric pleaded. "You got to find him. I can't get up yet, so you have to do it. Help me, Mark. Help me."

"It's too late, Eric. Daniel's dead."

"No. No!" Eric whispered and then moaned, tears emerging from his eyes. "No….no…no." He shook his head, crying harder, shaking away the thought. "We can find him. We can find him together-"

"I said it's too late, Eric. The game…is over."

Eric's eyes bulged. He looked up at Mark as if seeing him for the first time. His lips trembled, then opened and shut, but he didn't speak a word. Eric's frightened expression had an uncanny resemblance to Daniel's, Mark realized, yet this failed to elicit a sympathetic emotional response, as it would for almost any other human being.

"Mark," Eric whispered, the realization striking him painfully and surprisingly, like a cigarette burn from a careless smoker. "You're not…what are you doing here?"

"Jigsaw was right. You're no better than the fucking junkies we used to lock up all the time. Game Over."

"No!" Eric yelled, the denial gone, the cold truth sinking in. Mark had been involved the entire time. He had been helping Jigsaw. And he wasn't going to help him find Daniel. _He wasn't going to help._

"Mark! MARK! No! No! No!" he screamed, the last sounds reverberating in the empty halls, sounding more beast than human, a song of helplessness and betrayal.

"_NO!"_

**Author's Note: Thanks to Kalika Barlow again for being an awesome editor/beta reader! **


	19. Detach

**Timeline: Many Hours Later**

**Rating: Pg-13**

**Chapter 18**

**Detach**

Hours passed, as meaningless as the mindless doodles of an apathetic student, and Mark had yet to feel the usual twinges of guilt from an unforgiving conscience. He had yet to feel anything at all. Nothing had elicited even the slightest emotion from him after he said good-night to an already unconscious Amanda. He felt numb and removed, like a frostbitten limb amputated in a desperate attempt for survival. Mark wondered if he'd finally done what John wanted him to do all along, if he had finally detached from his emotions.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, wrenching him out of his deep thought. His real job demanded attention. He sighed and answered his cell.

"Hoffman," he said coolly.

"Mark?" the voice on the other line said. Even though her voice sounded different than usual because it was repressing tears, it could only be Kerry. "Eric's gone. He left with John Kramer to get Daniel, and now we can't find him. The tapes weren't live and–"

She rambled on and on while Mark slouched lower in his chair, calm and slightly surprised by his own callousness. He wanted to flip the phone lid down and drown out her frantic chatter.

"Daniel's here now, can you speak to him? He won't talk to us."

That surprised Mark. He expected Daniel to be blabbing every detail he could remember to anyone who would listen. The only explanation Mark could think of was that he was too traumatized to talk.

"I'll be at the department as soon as possible. Just get Daniel to calm down and tell you anything he can remember. And Kerry-"

"Yes?"

"Relax, before you scare him even more than he already is. You need to be the composed one in this situation."

"Right," she said. "You're right. Okay…" She was no longer talking to him as much as she was just trying to keep herself together. "Okay. Thank you, Mark. Bye."

Mark hung up and put his phone back in his pocket. He rubbed his eyes, trying to spurn his body's exhaustion and convince himself he could cope with another sleepless night.

"Who was that?" he heard Amanda say from behind him. He craned his head to the side to look at her, bruised and wounded. He silently cursed Eric again.

"Detective Kerry. My real job is calling."

"Oh."

"What are you doing awake? You should be resting."

"I hurt too much to sleep," she sighed. "I just got up to get some ibuprofen and water."

Mark knew it was pointless to offer her anything stronger, even though he knew a hospital wouldn't hesitate to prescribe more powerful painkillers after what she'd endured. She was too proud of her rehabilitation. He was hoping she would evade most of the pain with excessive sleep. Seeing her awake so shortly after her fight with Eric bothered him.

"Are you feeling okay? I can wait if you need me here," he said. He gazed at her with obvious concern.

"No. I'm fine. Well…" she said with a hesitant pause. She shifted her gaze away for a moment before admitting, "I guess I could use some help with the bandage on my head. It's falling off, and I can't fix it myself. My back hurts when I lift my arms..."

She turned around to reestablish her eye contact with Mark, daring him to laugh or smirk. Instead, he remained serious as he rose up to retrieve the medical kit that he abhorred having to use so often lately. He sighed, opened the box and pulled out the needed contents.

Amanda leaned on a nearby table for support. Her back still ached from the impact of Eric's metal pole colliding with her shoulder blades, and she felt lightheaded from lingering pain and exhaustion. When she saw Mark turn around with the antiseptic and cotton ball, she propped herself on top of the table to avoid the risk of collapsing from dizziness.

He eased the loose bandage off and patted her wound with the antibacterial. She winced.

"Does it sting?" he asked.

"A little," she confessed in a low voice. He softly fanned the wound with his breath. Unlike last time, she visibly shook from the sensation.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. He placed gauze over the area and bandaged her until he was satisfied it would hold until he returned. He put the materials away and when he turned to look at Amanda and reassess her wound, he drew too close to her face, her lips in particular. The table had corrected the great height advantage he usually had over her. Now she was literally face-to-face with him, and her eyes didn't waver from his. Both of them waited for the other to break eye contact, to break the intensity that was building between both of them before it became something else, something neither of them had control over, but neither moved an inch. Until Mark's lips brushed against hers, both of them were sure that the other was going to turn, make up some excuse as to why they had to leave, and then take off, leaving the other one breathless and frustrated. Then after that first moment of physical contact was made, neither of them were sure of anything anymore.

Mark's gentle first attempt was met with Amanda's hesitant consent. Her eyes closed, and suddenly it seemed impossible not to give in to the soft sensation against her skin that was making her shiver and made breathing require a conscious effort. Then a faint hint of his cologne hit her, and the smell completely yanked her out of what little was left of her conscious thoughts. Her instincts had control of her now, and her instincts demanded pursuit of the object of her desire.

She returned Mark's gesture with much more compliance, giving him the encouragement he needed to turn that slight touch into a full kiss. His lips pressed against hers with more force. She reciprocated with an intensity that matched his. His hands slid down her sides towards her hips, gentle in contrast to the much more vigorous way he was now pursing her lips. His tongue slid into her mouth, completely welcome and met with her own. He plunged deeper in, grazing the roof of her mouth and eliciting a slight moan of pleasure from Amanda, who now had one hand against Mark's neck and was pulling him closer. His hands traced the outline of one of her bandages, a subtle reminder that no matter how fervently she was kissing him, at the moment she was fragile and had to be handled as such. But Amanda's muffled moans of longing made it hard for Mark to control himself, so very hard…

The need for air interrupted the euphoric embrace. Mark gasped, and as soon as they parted contact, Amanda's eyes shot open and widened as she realized what they had just done.

"What the hell, Mark?" she snapped, still slightly breathless herself, as if she had been suddenly jolted out of a trance, a hypnosis begun by his comfort and gentle touch, and made more alluring by his sensual voice and soft lips. But now that brief spell over her had ended, she was furious she had succumbed to his charm. She pulled away from him, expecting to see his smug self-satisfied smile that had been absent for so long return. But what she saw was that he had apparently been as stunned and smitten as she had been, for his eyes had not fully fluttered open until she spoke, or rather hissed, his name, and his face did not take on the demeanor of someone smug or conceited. He looked rather surprised, either by his actions or hers or perhaps both.

Amanda waited for an explanation, but the kiss had left him inconveniently speechless.

"Never mind," she groaned. She attempted to slide off the table and nearly collapsed onto the floor. Mark instinctively crouched down to help her, but she shirked away.

"Just go," she snapped in a harsher voice, attempting to create as much physical distance as possible from him with her outstretched hand. "Your real job is calling, remember? You can stop wasting time here."

After a shaky second start, she regained her stance. She looked up at Mark.

"I think you should go now," she said. Her voice lowered to an almost normal volume, but her glare indicated that nothing was alright, that what had just transpired was not soon to be forgotten or dismissed. As she stared at him, his phone started going off again, an insistent reminder of things that needed to be taken care of elsewhere, in his other life. Torn between the pressure of taking care of the chaos that was surly exploding at work or resolving what had just happened between himself and Amanda, he chose what he deemed was probably the less exhausting of the two acts, reasoning to himself that Amanda probably needed a cooling off period anyway.

"We'll talk about this later," Mark said.

"_Can't wait_," she said sarcastically. He sighed, matching her intense stare with his own before he turned to leave. Amanda watched him as he walked away, her brow furrowed. She remained staring at the door he passed though as she wondered why she had just lashed out at him, why she had asked him to fix her bandage when she was capable of doing it herself, why she had wanted him to touch her, and what it was that he could possibly have to say to her, except that maybe, she feared, he thought he had just made a great mistake.

* * *

The artificial energy from his coffee felt like the only thing propelling Mark forward. It wasn't just the physical exertion, but the mental exhaustion that was tearing him down.

_Get it together. Eric is missing; you have to pretend to care about that. Daniel, in some ironic twist of fate, is waiting to confide in me, and Kerry's probably out of her mind right now with worry…_

What was it that he always said to rookies and the subordinates in his department?

_Leave your problems at the door. _

_No, its leave your personal shit at the door. No, that's not right either. That sounds more like Eric than me…_

"Mark!" Kerry yelled, rushing past and nearly knocking into other detectives as she sprinted towards him. She looked awful, with knotted unkempt hair and bags under her eyes. Eric hadn't been gone long, and Mark wondered how his sudden disappearance could have already created such a major negative impact on Kerry's appearance. Then he realized the majority of the damage was probably the result of recent extensive crying; her eyes were the red shade of an insomniac, without the side effect of fatigue. She seemed alert, prepared to follow whatever orders Mark gave her.

"Mark…what do we do?" she said, completely lost, looking for leadership and direction from him as though he was the native guide that would lead them out of wilderness. It was new territory, after all. This was one of their own that was lost, possibly dead. That simple fact made the situation completely different than the Jigsaw cases before.

"We'll find him. I promise. Kerry, you need to…detach yourself from the situation and think objectively. When you walk in here, you have to leave your emotions at the door. You're not going to help Eric if you're not focused. "

"Okay. I will," she said, her eyes revealing the liar she was. She'd say anything to hover around the department waiting to hear news about Eric's location and condition.

"Daniel's in room two. He hasn't said much except that he wants to see Eric. And when I told him his father…wasn't available, he started throwing chairs around and demanded to see you or his Dad," Kerry said.

_Throwing chairs around? Not so different from his Dad after all, _Mark thought, appreciating how he'd continued to underestimate Daniel all these years.

"Alright," he said, nodding his head. He left Kerry standing there, her hand covering her mouth and her eyes squinting, trying not to give into the tears that pressed against her eyelids, ready for release. She looked hopeless and alone, as if stranded on her own little island of despair and everyone else around her dared not attempt a rescue. It had come hours too late, but Mark finally felt that usual pang of guilt he'd been missing. Although it hurt to be a witness to Kerry's grief, he knew he just had to wait it out, and eventually the guilt would fade, the way the unpleasant tingling sensation of disturbing a sleeping muscle mitigates with the passage of time.

Mark entered Room Two and saw Daniel with his forehead pressed against the table, his arms shielding his head on both sides. Mark hoped he wasn't crying. Between the trauma of what Daniel had been through and the unexplained absence of his father, he had every right to, but to see more tears…

_How many tears can someone witness in 48 hours without losing it? _

"Hello, Daniel," Mark said with a professional, sympathetic yet formal tone that he reserved for this aspect of his job. He dragged the chair on the opposite side of Daniel so that he could sit beside him. Talking across the table made the situation feel too much like an interrogation. Witnesses freeze. Victims retreat from the external world and into themselves. He put a hand on Daniel's shoulder, both comforting him and trying to ease him out of the physical barrier he'd created for himself.

"Are you okay, Daniel? You can talk to me," he said. He lifted his head up and looked directly in Mark's eyes.

"Where's my Dad?" he asked. "No one's telling me anything. I know something's wrong, or he'd be here right now." His eyes were tainted red from tears as well, but unlike Kerry, he didn't seem to be on the verge of more. He was completely cried out. His eyes were empty shells, hollow and no longer innocent, like the eyes of many police officers Mark had known who'd been on the job too long. He looked the way that Mark felt.

"I know you'll tell me the truth. What happened? Is he dead?" Daniel asked, a reasonable question Mark anticipated would come up, not that he had prepared a reasonable answer. He swallowed uncomfortably.

"Your father is missing."

Daniel shook his head, his lips tightening in anger. His left hand pulled at the sleeve of his shirt. Mark noted that the nervous tic probably helped him cope when tears would no longer suffice.

"It has something to do with Jigsaw, right? Something to do with me?"

Mark didn't know what to say. Surely honesty wasn't going to make him feel any better, but he was bound to find out the truth eventually. It left Mark in a very difficult spot.

"Tell me the truth, damn it!" he yelled. He darted up from his chair and grasped the edge of it like he was ready to start smashing it into windows and vandalize the entire building. Both his hands shook, his fingers twitching as though he were playing guitar on the chair. His tic continued to progress.

"Yes," Mark said calmly, trying to handle Daniel's outburst the same way he used to handle Eric's. "It's true. You're father went with Jigsawbecause he promised he'd lead Eric to you. He obviously lied. And now we don't know where they are."

"No…_no…" _Daniel whimpered, shaking his head. He crumpled into his chair. His bottom lip trembled. He stared at Mark with pleading eyes.

"This is my fault," he confessed. "I stormed off after our last fight. I didn't think that…I was stupid and reckless and…"

"Daniel, this is not your fault. No one could have predicted what Jigsaw was going to do, not even your Dad. But we got the whole department looking for him. We're going to find him."

"Alive?" Daniel asked, but the way he looked at Mark showed that he already knew the probable answer. A silence followed Daniel's one word question.

"Hopefully," Mark said at last, the best he could do under the circumstances, even though the lie was getting much harder to tell. Eric could be a real bastard, but Daniel didn't deserve to suffer through this. The longer Daniel held onto this false hope, the harsher reality would be when it came crashing down on him.

"He's a real jerk sometimes. Especially lately, because of the divorce. But…he's my _Dad_. I just want him to be safe. I'd do anything to have him back."

As he sat next to Daniel and listened to this pitiful teenager's confessions and misplaced guilt, Mark truly felt remorse for Eric's fate. Through Daniel he was able to remember the good in Eric too, not just the monster capable of nearly killing Amanda. But despite the rising feelings, it wasn't the time to mourn.

_Leave it at the door, _he reminded himself.

"Daniel, I'm going to do my best to locate your father, but I need you to help me. Do you remember being abducted? Do you remember anything after that?"

Daniel shook his head to indicate he did not.

"I remember some stuff that happened after the kidnapping. Lots of traps. Dead bodies. A bathroom. But it's all confusing. It's a total mess in my head."

_Good._

"Do you remember ever seeing Jigsaw in person?" Mark asked.

"No. But there were tapes, tapes that told us what to do. The first girl that found a tape…_Amanda. _Shit. Did you find Amanda?" Daniel asked. "Is she okay?"

_She'd be a lot better if your Dad hadn't gotten hold of her._

"Amanda?" Mark said. "You mean Amanda Young? No, her whereabouts are currently unknown."

"Oh," Daniel said, slumping even further down into his chair. Suddenly the door swung open, Kerry emerging from the staffroom with a cup a coffee in one hand while the other clinched the doorknob like a stress ball. A jiggling sound reverberated in the room as she rattled it back and forth in her shaky hand.

"Daniel, your Mom's here," she said. Daniel nodded and left the room, glaring at Kerry with disdain as they passed at the doorway. Kerry sighed and set the coffee on the desk in front of Mark.

"Here," she said. "You're going to need this. It's going to be a long day."

* * *

Amanda took a slight detour on her way back to her measly cot. She left the medical kit as it was, the ibuprofen as absent from her mind as the pain itself. She drifted towards the room John resided in, lingering in the doorway, wanting to talk with him and debating whether or not to stir him from his sleep, like a child wondering if they should wake their parents for comfort from a bad nightmare. Eventually she decided against it. Her emotional conflict wasn't something she could talk about with him anyway. Although hearing his voice would be a real comfort, far better than the inadequate aspirin she originally sought when she rose from her bed.

The pain returned as she stood there, her mind drifting into thoughts of Mark. At first it was slow, like tides receding from a beach, before the throbbing ache crashed down with sudden force, a cruel reminder of her encounter with Eric. She retrieved the medicine she so carelessly dismissed earlier and went back to her room to rest. As she anticipated, the sleep she longed for wouldn't come. She stared up at the dirty ceiling, wondering why Mark had kissed her, and more importantly, why she wanted him to, why she practically begged him to with her eyes, with her thoughts.

_It's obvious why I wanted it, _she thought, her conscience harsh and accusing. _He's been on my mind ever since I so coyly asked him if he wanted a private showing, and oh, did I give him one. Gave him a little extra too, didn't I? Gave him a real bang for his buck before I left him high and dry with lust still glowing in his eyes ...those beautiful eyes...and let's be brutally honest, I left him with a nice, big hard on tucked under those slacks... all because I thought he was another Eric. I bet he didn't like being toyed with, being led on like that…_

The thought of Mark putting the bandages over the wounds Eric had inflicted on her dismissed her memory of the strip club.

_But I was wrong about that, _a more innocent, vulnerable Amanda admitted._ I was so wrong, and I realize that now. Mark is the opposite of Eric. What happened before I was reborn doesn't matter. What matters is whether he's toying with me now the way I toyed with him, or if..._

But Amanda didn't want to think about _or if,_ because she knew he wasn't toying with her, and what she didn't know was what _or if _entailed. She'd never known because being toyed with was all she'd ever experienced or expected. He wanted her now like he did then. It was the look in his eyes before the kiss, and afterwards, those fluttering eyelashes that grazed against her cheeks, that blissful expression on his face that gave him away. It wasn't an act or a game to him. Whatever spell had been cast over her in that moment had taken him as well, and now that it was over, she had to decide what it meant.

As Amanda thought about him, her fingers absentmindedly grazed one of the bandages on her arm. A bandage he had put there. He told her to leave, to stay out of John's games before she got hurt, and when she inevitably did get injured, he was always there to bandage her wounds, her own nurse aid whenever she needed him. It meant something that she couldn't quite recognize because it was so foreign, but she did recognize that it meant _something. _Amanda rolled over on her cot and rubbed her bandaged wounds, trying to figure out what that something was.

**Author's Note: Thanks to Kalika Barlow, still the best Beta Reader/Editor ever.**


	20. Confession

**Timeline: Two Weeks later**

**Rating: PG **

**Chapter 19**

**Confession**

"**It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution." – Oscar Wilde**

Within two weeks, Amanda's body had forgotten the majority of her wounds. They were mostly just a memory now- a memory that Mark continued to resurrect every time he saw her, either with his seething remarks directed at John or by the mere sight of the medical kit that Amanda had come to associate with Mark as much as his gun and badge.

"Really, I think I can bandage myself now," Amanda said, blushing as Mark opened the kit, a subtle but strong reminder of what had occurred only two weeks ago. She wondered if he was secretly wishing for a replay of that kiss as much as she was. Neither of them had mentioned it since Amanda's outburst.

_We'll talk about this later, he said. Clearly he didn't have a timeframe in mind,_ Amanda thought, the truth was that, like her, he didn't know how to bring the subject up. Silence was just easier, so they settled for it.

"There's no point in straining yourself," Mark told her, continuing to proceed with the task as usual.

"I really don't think I even need bandages anymore..."

"I beg to differ, and until you've spent years working alongside paramedics and gathering experience and knowledge from them…" he sighed, lifting up her shirt a few inches to reveal one of the most stubborn injuries that remained, a surge of anger coursing though him. "…Just let me do my job, Amanda. Okay?"

"Fine," she said, wondering when he had decided taking care of her had become part of his job description.

"It's a miracle you didn't have to be hospitalized," he said. She nodded her head in agreement, not really sure how to respond otherwise. "But then again, maybe you would have finally seen the light and gotten the hell out of here if…" Mark said, his words trailing off as his thoughts did.

"That wouldn't have happened," Amanda said with a stubborn scowl. "I'm not leaving."

Mark didn't have a reply. The silence that followed became too intense between them, particularly when he pressed against the gauze tape in order to secure it, stroking her skin in the process. It reminded Amanda of how his fingers had traced the outline of her bandage when he kissed her. She shivered.

"So how's the case going?" she asked, mainly to distract herself from his busy fingers.

"Terrific," he mocked, "I think I have a lead. Sometimes I get the feeling the answer is _right in front of me…_" He locked eyes with her and smirked.

"Shut up. You know what I meant," she snapped, but the sting of her tone was suppressed with a smile she couldn't contain.

"The investigation isn't going anywhere…and why should it? I'm leading everyone in circles," he said with a smile, although his voice didn't match his expression. His tone had become saturated in animosity. He hated being an obstacle in his own department, hindering his own investigation. It was a necessary evil.

"Do you ever feel guilty? Showing up at work and lying to everyone every day? Lying about who you really are?" she asked. She didn't have time to wonder if she'd gone too far until the words had already left her mouth, wanting already to retract them.

"I'm not lying to the world about who I really am," he said coolly, but his fingers inadvertently compressed a little too hard on her back, disagreeing completely with his words.

"_Oh really_, Jigsaw accomplice?" she said, peering into his eyes in an effort to discern the truth. They were the windows to the soul after all…

"Well…I don't exactly have much say in the matter, do I?" Mark snapped.

"Because John's blackmailing you," Amanda said, her tone softening, unable to stem feelings of pity towards him.

"Well…yes. Although I'll admit, I bought John's act at first. Bringing justice to people who deserved it. It sounded right somehow. Then we started testing people like you, people like Laura…"

Amanda cringed, remembering the dying girl writhing and seizing, before going limp in her arms.

"…Then people like Daniel started getting in danger, people who shouldn't be anywhere near these games. Everything became a mess. The line between who deserves to be tested and who doesn't hasn't just been crossed, it's been completely discarded, like crime scene tape thrown away after an investigation."

Amanda nodded sympathetically.

"Sometimes…it's confusing…trying to understand John's logic," she admitted. Mark looked up at her with surprise.

"That almost sounded like criticism, Amanda," he said. She shrugged.

"I trust him though, even if I don't always understand him."

Mark raised his eyebrow and shook his head in disdain. "That kind of blind trust often makes us fools. It can make us believe lies, even when the truth is glaringly obvious."

Amanda shot him a disapproving glare, all the ammunition she needed for a proper scolding expressed in her face.

"Okay," he said, indicating his defeat in once again failing to persuade Amanda that John was a manipulative madman, and also that he had finished the last bandage. He tossed the rest of the gauze in the kit, and then made a mental note to get more the next time he was out.

"So, what is it that keeps you from leaving then?" she asked. She was thinking about Mark's dirty secret and what could possibly be bad enough that John could possess that kind of control over a man like Mark Hoffman. She didn't really expect an answer, but she couldn't help wondering aloud.

The look in Mark's eyes indicated he had clearly misinterpreted her innocent question. He looked taken aback, and then serious, like a man ready for confession.

"It's complicated."

She raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

"Oh?

"At first, it was because of John. He was very _persuasive_," he said, the last word pumped with bitterness. He looked down at the ground for too long, clearly avoiding her gaze. He was hiding something. That much was obvious. The concrete couldn't have been that fascinating.

"But now?" she pried, leaning a little closer.

When Mark looked up again, he didn't realize just how near she'd gotten, and like two weeks ago, he was taken aback by just how alluring she could be, particularly when she was less than a foot away from him.

"…Now it's complicated," he repeated, a little breathless.

"How so?" she said, tilting her head slightly.

"Well, now it's because of you," he whispered, as quietly as a particularly sinful admission in a confessional.

"The blackmail…keeps me from turning John in. But even if John did reveal what I've done, even if he double crossed me…I couldn't just take off and leave you with _him_. I couldn't…leave you like that..."

Amanda inhaled deeply, and once again, the closeness reiterated in their minds as her breasts nearly brushed against him. She knew he was protective of her, but she never really expected him to say something like that out loud. Their bodies remembered what their minds had tried to shut out for too long. He licked his lips; she bit hers. His neck craned down slightly, remembering that first kiss as his body forced him to pursue that pleasure once more…

…but before the actual contact was made, they were interrupted by earsplitting noises reverberating from an adjacent room, the rattling and banging sound of objects being clanked around, crashing against each other and the hard, solid floor, like a child's version of playing the drums. It provided a wakeup call that instantly made them back away, their hearts beating with the fierceness of the shrill sounds that had separated them.

"I better see if John's okay," she gasped, and nearly sprinted out of the room.

"Good idea," he said, although Amanda was too far away to hear him by the time the words had actually left his mouth. He swallowed and rolled his eyes in frustration. It had nearly happened again. The thought both pleased and intimidated him.

She wanted him like he wanted her.

Two weeks hadn't been enough time to get the memory of their kiss out of her system either. But now they were definitely going to have to talk about what happened, and what had almost happened again. No way around it. The part that really bothered him was that he had no idea how that conversation would end.

He winced as the memory of Amanda pushing him away returned…

_What the hell, Mark?_

_I think you should go now._

…and he smiled slightly as the more recent memory of her drawing close to him and nearly repeating that blissful moment replaced it.

* * *

"John, are you okay?" Amanda asked, her eyes flickering around the dimly lit room, searching for the source of the commotion. The image of John lying on the floor, helpless and injured, trapped under something heavy that had collapsed on him, haunted her imagination, until she found him safe, standing over a heap of metallic junk and broken gears and staring at the garbage with the intensity of a dedicated overseer.

John apparently didn't hear her meek voice amidst his deep thought. He shook his head and happened to glance up at Amanda, realizing she was there for the first time.

"Just a potential trap in need of some adjustments," he explained when he saw the confused expression on her face. He crossed his arms and glared at the mess as he tried to mentally calculate his error. Amanda then realized that the twisted scraps of metal that were now scattered all over the floor had moments ago been part of a plan to rehabilitate someone, change their life forever…or else provide a final lesson.

John closed his eyes and nodded his head as he realized his blunder. He went back to his blueprints and made critical corrections, marking the paper with his pen fiercely, like a teacher with a harsh grading policy. Amanda stood there, feeling relieved and a little curious as to what the broken pieces of rubbish were originally intended to do.

"Amanda," John said, still glancing over his blueprints, "There are three test subjects I need you to bring in soon. The file on the desk beside you contains all the necessary information."

Amanda glanced to her right and picked it up.

"Okay," she said with a weak smile that John, still preoccupied with the stubborn problem before him, missed entirely. Amanda watched him with great interest, wishing she could be inside his head for just a few minutes to understand how it worked….but perhaps for a man like John Kramer a few hours inside his mind would be required to fully grasp the mechanics. For everything she didn't understand, she had trust to fill in the gaps.

_Blind trust…_

_Oh, shut up, Mark._

Amanda opened the file and glanced at the materials within. It contained only information about the location of the subject's residence and work, and photos of the possible victims themselves. Adam's pictures, no doubt. Amanda wasn't sure how she could be so certain, but she knew in her gut that he had taken these photographs. He had a certain distinctive style. She could see him, hidden from plain sight, his camera strapped around his neck, dangling around his stomach while he waited for the right moment to get the perfect shot. He caught his subjects off guard, not caring if the image was flattering or beautiful or aesthetically pleasing…the moment was _real._ It captured them at a moment when they thought they were privately alone with their thoughts. He portrayed the world in the perspective of a stalker. She wondered what she must have looked like in the picture Adam took of her. Even though she was aware of the camera, and it was a somewhat posed picture, he would have somehow captured the real her, and with a single photograph he would know more about Amanda Young than she did after so many years and years of trying to figure it out.

After getting over the realization and shock that she was looking at the pictures of a dead photographer, she studied the actual subjects of the photos with more focus. The test involved two women and one man. The details of the trap were excluded from the file. Just the information needed to kidnap them was included. That was John, practical and to the point, giving her just enough information to complete her task while being careful to never satisfy her curiosity in the process.

The man was particularly handsome, and eerily familiar. Amanda wondered if she'd encountered him in her previous life. More specifically, she thought she'd seen him hanging around the strip club she used to work at. Surely that wasn't the entire story behind him though. He wouldn't even be a bleep on John's radar unless he'd done something far worse.

Thinking of this man's dirty laundry made her curious about the secrets of another man she had on her mind. One that she couldn't get off her mind.

"John…what is it that you have on Mark that made him decide to help you?" Amanda asked. She sat down on a nearby desk and crossed her legs, like a child waiting for story time.

"That's between Mark and me," John said. "I've promised him my secrecy, in exchange for his assistance."

Amanda couldn't help but feel disappointed, as though she had expected total disclosure from him.

"Amanda, I promise you that if you needed to know, I would tell you."

"Okay, John. I trust you," she said. She punctuated it with a smile. John looked up, saw her looking at him with total admiration, and caught her smile the way some people catch a contagious yawn.

"I'm glad to hear that, Amanda," he said. "Trust is invaluable, and delicate. Like so many of life's most precious gifts; love, forgiveness…and time."

Amanda swallowed nervously. _Time. So precious. We only get so much and then it's all gone…_

"Mark says the investigation on us is going nowhere," Amanda said, wanting to continue speaking with him as long as possible, even if she had nothing to really say. His time was so short, and she wanted more with him, even if it was mere small nodded in approval.

"That makes sense, considering Mark's the one leading the investigation now," he said.

"Yeah," she said.

"I only wonder how long they will stand for Mark's incompetence before they begin to suspect him," he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. His attention shifted away from Amanda and back towards his blueprints for an instant. Then he looked at her once again. "He can only hinder the investigation so long."

Amanda felt uneasy.

"What does this mean? Are you worried?" She sounded slightly panicked. If John was worried, she was as well, like a child whose emotions reflect that of their parents. But he smiled in response, reassuring her.

"I'm not worried. It will all work out. Mark is trusted by his department. And he plays his role well."

"But it's not like he's been the most competent detective in the past. I mean, he was oblivious to someone in his own department planting evidence on people. What if they begin to think he's…not up to leading this investigation?"

"You think that Mark didn't know about Eric's actions?" John said. He looked at Amanda curiously.

"And you think he did," Amanda said, the truth dawning slowly like the first rays of morning.

"I think…that it shouldn't be surprising to you, given what we know about Mark Hoffman," John said, neither accepting nor dismissing her accusation. But the expression on John's face said everything. Mark had let Eric get away with it. He knew what Eric was doing, and he looked the other way. She'd convinced herself Mark was the opposite of Eric…but Mark himself had admitted they weren't so different.

_Now I know why…_Amanda thought. _That's what John's dangling over his head. That's why when John says "Jump", Mark will jump. When John says, "Stick a syringe in this person's neck and watch them go down without a fight," Mark will do just that. Because Mark let Eric plant evidence on people…and on me._

Suddenly it wasn't about the indignation of being left out of the secret those two shared, nor the fact that Mark had done something awful, or had at least let something awful happen again and again under his supervision. Marked with his fucking approval, even. No, it went deeper than all that. Now it was about betrayal.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Amanda asked John, clinching her teeth.

"It's only speculation, Amanda," he flat out lied. His voice was cold and callous, like a certain doctor he remembered dispensing a terminal diagnosis not too long ago, but it carried the quality of seriousness as well. A tone that promised truth. "…But I do believe Mark was aware of Eric's actions, and that he ignored them."

Amanda gripped the file harder, the pages sliding around beneath her fingers.

"Okay," she said, forcing a smile John didn't bother to acknowledge. "Well, if this conversation is over, I'm going to get started now. I'm going to go share this file with Mark_..._right away_," _she said, storming out of the room.

* * *

Normally, shopping for less than a dozen items didn't take Mark an entire afternoon, but he had left the warehouse more in necessity to clear his head than due to a dire need for bread and milk.

_And gauze, _he reminded himself.

He returned with grocery bags in both arms, and put everything away as Amanda stood just out of sight, her arms crossed, her face a perfect reflection of her internal inferno of seething anger.

"I know why you're really here," Amanda said, her voice taking on an unrecognizable coldness he had never heard from her, imitating the usual emotionless tone of her mentor. Clearly she was not referencing any part of their encounter earlier that day. "And it has _nothing_ to do with me, does it?"

A sadistic smile spread across her face. He hadn't seen her look at him that way since she first got here and resented him for helping John only because of the blackmail. Somehow, over the course of a couple hours, he had become the enemy again.

_What did John tell her?_

Immediately his mind burned with the searing memory of Seth, screaming and struggling against his restraints as the pendulum gradually descended into his flesh, flinging guts all over the room like a careless butcher tossing away the bad parts of a fresh carcass.

"So why _did _you do it?" Amanda asked.

Seth looking over at the door, staring at him with dying eyes, as though he knew Mark was watching from the other side.

"What exactly did he tell you?" Mark asked.

_He had no right...we had a deal. He would tell no one if I did what he asked. That includes Amanda. _Especially _Amanda..._

"He told me you knew what Eric was doing before he was tested. Did you? Did you know he was planting evidence on people?"

Mark inwardly sighed. She didn't know after all. He resented John for a multitude of reasons, but he had kept to his word.

"Yes."

"Why did you let him?"

He paused for a long time, not wanting to answer prematurely before he'd accumulated all his thoughts. It was difficult to think with all this mounting anger, and there were so many explanations, but in order to fully appreciate them, she would have to experience all the ugliness of being involved in the criminal justice system for decades and seeing how it could be hypocritical and unfair, and how sometimes it seemed to self destruct and lose its purpose right before his very eyes.

"I let him because I'm sick of the disgusting injustice of criminals getting back on the street for technicalities and _good behavior_. When they hurt innocent people and get away with it…that's not justice. I had to look the other way and let Eric continue. I had to do whatever the hell I could to save people, even if it meant breaking the rules." He ended his rant with a deep sigh, and added, "For me, there was no other option. I would have rather died."

"Really? Is that what you thought when you were strapped to a chair with a gun pointing in your face? 'I'm glad I did nothing; I'm glad I let Eric plant evidence on innocent people'?" Amanda snapped, her arms crossed over her chest tightening, constricting herself.

"Oh, no, Amanda. That's where you're wrong. They were never _innocent_, even if they didn't commit the crimes we incarcerated them for," Mark said, his voice lowering to a malicious whisper, burning with self righteous conviction. He believed in the morality of his actions, of _Eric's _actions, the way Amanda believed in John.

"What about me? I _was_ innocent. I was trying to get clean before Eric screwed it all up."

"Well, that was a mistake. It's not like I signed off and gave approval for every one of his actions. I just...overlooked them. And sometimes I made suggestions..."

"_Made suggestions_?" she snapped. Her nostrils flared. The sound of her sneaker scuffing against concrete could be heard in the silence that followed.

_Oops. That wasn't the right thing to say.  
_  
"Once. One suggestion."

"Who?" Amanda asked incredulously.

"Someone that I knew was damn well guilty and needed to be locked up," he yelled, slamming his hand against a table. The force of the movement caused it to shift several inches. Amanda's eyes grew wide. She'd never seen him so riled up over anything. For a moment, he reminded her of Eric, except...scarier. Because it wasn't like him at all. Mark repressed his anger, he clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, he growled until his throat was raw, he shot dirty looks at John whenever he could, but he never looked like _this._

"What did someone do to you that pissed you off that much?" Her voice sounded weak, almost afraid. It snapped Mark out of his anger immediately. Amanda wasn't the one he was pissed at. Mark had already taken care of him. Yet it wasn't enough, not nearly enough. He still wasn't satisfied that justice had been done. But how could that be? He'd done the job himself.

_But it wasn't enough. Nothing could ever be enough...even with a death so gory it made me have to turn away, it still wasn't enough..._

"This discussion is over," Mark said coldly, turning to leave. Amanda watched him go without protest. Both of them were shaken and furious and in desperate need of a separation period.

_This discussion is over..._

_...like hell it is._

"I guess this is something else we'll talk about this later," she whispered.


	21. Feel What I Feel

**Timeline: The next day**

**Rating: Pg-13**

**Chapter 20**

**Feel What I Feel**

"**In one touch, you can speak volumes." –Tobin Bell**

"Damn it," Amanda moaned, contorting her arm at an awkward angle behind her back to rub a tender spot. The area still ached from the impact of Eric's pole colliding with her shoulder blades. Although the once massive bruise spanning her entire back faded away, the injury still caused her spine to periodically pulsate with pain. In the midst of another intense spasm of agony, she heard Mark stroll into the warehouse. The squeaky door he usually entered through alarmed her to his presence as effectively as a door bell.

"Even better," she groaned, her hand clutching the edge of her cot. She'd rather barricade herself in her room than face him. Either she'd look at him and her anger would flare up again, or she'd feel guilty for lashing out at him yet again. Then there was the most awkward conversation of her life to look forward to, an undoubtedly lengthy verbal analysis of why every time he brushed against her she wanted him to passionately kiss her.

_Oh come on, you want a little more than that, Amanda. You want to hop on top of Mark and ride him like a mechanical bull at rodeo week. He'd probably thrust like one too…_

She blushed at the thought, and immediately shoved the image out of her mind. She should still be seething! He was _not_ off the hook. Mark may have had good intentions, but he had still helped Eric do something awful…something that had almost ruined her life if John had not saved her. Although Mark had helped John, and inadvertently, this meant he had helped her too. So his negligence as Eric's superior had been a contributing factor in making her old life a living hell, but by being John's assistant, he had given her a new life, a better life. Damn it. The situation was so complicated. _He _was so complicated…

A throbbing sensation diverted her attention from her swirling thoughts and onto the present moment. It felt like a knife sliced through her flesh and trailed along her spine in a straight vertical cut. Rapid flashbacks of Xavier cutting off the skin behind his neck invaded her mind, and the mental image somehow made her pain sharper. She felt on the brink of crying…but no, that was an understatement. She felt like _using. _That would certainly take her mind off of the excruciating, spiteful reminder of her fight with Eric. Even now that bastard had found a way of hurting her, and worse, making her want to give in to the release of heroin one more time. But she'd rather someone actually slice her open than go through that hell again.

"Amanda, are you okay?" She heard his concerned voice through the slightly ajar door. He peered into her room, saw that she was decently dressed, and opened the door as far as possible before a pile of clothes acted as a doorstop and prohibited it from moving further. Of course she should have known better than to expect he'd actually leave her in peace. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Her muscles relaxed. Her fingers loosened their grip on a pillow she hadn't even realized she had seized. The awful sensation in her back mitigated slightly.

"I'm fine," she said, looking up at him. Mark loitered in the doorway. He glanced around with curiosity. The few times he'd passed by her room, he'd never bothered to study the inside, not that there was much to see, just books and dirty clothes flung around carelessly, and a few simple pieces of furniture, including a dresser that contained rare family photographs and more pairs of lacy underwear and their matching tops than Mark Hoffman could possibly fathom stuffed in the bottom drawer. Although he usually preferred imagining them actually _on _Amanda instead of nestled in a small cranny of her room. It wasn't her choice though. She had decided to start anew, but she still wore the clothes of her past life, and that past life had involved a vocation that required she wear lingerie and kinky costumes five times a week. He noticed one particular pair…of course it had to be red, her best color… wedged between a gap, slightly poking out of the drawer. Mark pretended not to see it and tried to stop imaging what color she was currently wearing.

_Not the time, Mark…leave it at the door_, he reminded himself.

"I'm sorry about what happened yesterday," he said. He continued to hesitate by the door due to a slightly irrational fear of Amanda's chaotic room swallowing him and a much more realistic fear of being unable to resist kissing her again.

_What are you really sorry about? The argument or the fact that we almost kissed? _she thought.

"Are you sorry about what you did, or just sorry I found out?" she asked, going with her first assumption.

"I'm sorry you had to find out from John. I should have told you. But it's not exactly the easiest subject to bring up."

"Hmm…an uncomfortable subject that's not easy to bring up. Wonder what else you could possibly be referring to," she jeered, and instantly regretted it. Mark had come to her,humble and apologetic, and she had relapsed into another spontaneous outburst. It was like watching wildfire spread, flames flickering in unpredictable patterns, as unstable as Amanda's constantly changing emotions.

"Why do you do that? Why do you always lash out at me?" he asked. He sounded angry, as he had every right to be. It had been difficult to approach her about this, particularly difficult for him to come to her and apologize, no less, for something that he had done that had accidently hurt her. And she couldn't even calm down long enough to even hear his explanation.

"Because I'm sick of your lies, Mark! And I'm sick of this passive aggressive crap. You bottle everything up inside, but it's so obvious you hate John, you hate me, you hate being here! You think you're so much better than us, so why don't you do everyone a huge fucking favor and _go_."

"I don't hate you," Mark said instantly, forgetting to remind her that he couldn't exactly go when John was still dangling that blackmail over his head… particularly the part Amanda _didn't _know about…No, all he could think about was how entirely wrong she was about that part of her rant. He didn't hate her. At times she infuriated him beyond reason, brought out a hostile side of him he'd usually been able to repress, but hate wasn't the right word for how he felt for her. Even if it was, he didn't hate her nearly as much as he cared for her. She was wrong…_so wrong…_

"You do hate me. That's why you let Eric ruin my life," she said, her hand back to clutching her pillow again, staring up at Mark as he stood at the entrance of her room, able to retreat at any time. She wondered what button she'd have to push to get him to leave, because she was persistently pushing all the ones she could, like a child's first ride on an elevator, and yet he wasn't backing down.

"It was before I even knew you," he said, defending himself.

"That doesn't matter!" Amanda shouted, her nails digging into the plushy cushion sitting on her lap.

"So you get a second chance, an opportunity to start over and make amends, but I don't? Don't you think that's a little hypocritical, Amanda?" He crossed his arms, accentuating his point with all the sanctimonious conviction of…well…the man he despised the most. John Kramer. Not that Mark was aware of the man he was subconsciously imitating.

"I realize I did something wrong. That's the difference," Amanda said. "You still think you're a fucking hero."

He slammed his hand against the door. His bangs splashed across his forehead, shadowing his eyes.

"_I know I made a mistake, Amanda! A big fucking mistake! And I paid for it! _I'm _still_ paying for it, every time I walk in here and have to take orders from that mad man and watch you descend further into this insanity, _I'm paying for it_! You look at me like I'm the bad guy, and you look at John with these hero-worship eyes, and it's like…it's like…" His voice cracked.

_Why can't I have that?_ He thought. _Why can't you look at _me_ that way?_

He couldn't conclude his tirade like that. No, that was far too petulant. But nothing else but the incensed jealousy he felt would come to mind.

"Amanda, I screwed up. I realize that now, I do. If I could go back and change what happened, I would. Because in the end, nothing good came of it. You got hurt, the person I wanted Eric to plant evidence on got out eventually anyway, and everything backfired. But that was before I even knew you. You got a second chance at a new life…why can't I get a second chance too?"

"Why do you feel this need to make everyone pay for what they did, Mark? Who made you judge and jury?" Amanda asked coldly.

Mark shook his head, looking away in frustration. After a short pause, he continued talking, half in and out of her room, his face and body still turned away from Amanda.

"When I was a kid, my family was in a car accident. It left me and my sister orphans. The fucker that killed them got away with it."

"Well, that's awful but…you said it was an _accident,_ Mark. Accidents happen."

"He just left us. The driver in the other car didn't even stick around to help. Not even man enough to bear seeing the carnage he created. I mean, maybe he couldn't have done anything to save them, but he sure as hell could have tried."

_A hit-and-run drunk driver who killed half his family…so that's what makes Mark Hoffman who he is. The vengeful seeker of justice, no matter who gets hurt in the process._

"So is this the guy you tried to get Eric to plant evidence on?" Amanda asked, her fingers nervously tugging at the corner of her pillow like an unsurpassable tic. Daniel's twitchy behavior had rubbed off on her a little.

"No. I never found out who he was," Mark sighed.

"So…who was it then? Who did you hate so much that you'd let Eric plant evidence on him? Who was it, Mark? Or do you even remember anymore? Was it just one person, or was it every fucking case you've ever had?"Amanda snarled, remembering her trial, if it could even be called that. Amanda Young's case, played out in the courtroom of sham trials and barely disguised bias. The worst fifteen minutes of her life. A written report from Eric Matthews, all lies, and a bag of drugs that weren't even hers had caused the judge to rule that she'd violated her probation. The verdict cost her prison time and a downward spiral into even harder drugs than the ones she'd been meddling in and out of before.

"It was _one_ time, Amanda. It was just once…" he said, looking at her desperately.

"Who was it, Mark? Who was it? Whose life did you screw up that time because you couldn't get over some petty grudge?_ Whose life did you ruin? _Well, tell me, I'm waiting; this has got to be good. _Tell me, Mark! Tell me!_"

"_The man who fucking killed my sister!"_ Mark yelled. Silence saturated the atmosphere, but it wasn't filled with animosity anymore. It was the silence that shadows dark confessions, sudden car accidents, the revelation of a patient's terminal diagnosis, the identification of a loved one's body, the end of a eulogy, the end of a child's innocence. Amanda looked as though Mark had just slapped her across the face, even though all he'd done was spun around and yelled with...was that…

_Oh my God, he's crying._

"Amanda, I can't take this anymore. I'm sorry. I've made it very clear that I'm sorry for what I've done-"

"I'm sorry too," she blurted out. She felt like leaping up and embracing him, comforting him for the pain she'd caused him. "I didn't know…"

"Well, now you do," he spat out, tacking on a bitter smile at the end. For a moment, he was entirely shut off from the world around him. His eyes were open but he wasn't _seeing_. Mark sensed the present moment with dim awareness, but he wasn't experiencing it, he wasn't seeing Amanda or her cluttered room or even the space surrounding him. He was seeing several years ago, he was _reliving _that moment where he'd collapsed to his knees and held Angelina's hand, kissing the back of it because he loved her so very much and he was sorry, _so sorry_, he'd hesitated too long before he intervened. Because he had seen the signs, and he'd done nothing. Because he couldn't kiss her forehead like he usually did; blood had smeared over it and her neck had been gashed so deeply her head could have severed from her body had he applied even the slightest pressure. Because he'd failed her. Because even though he'd loved her, in the end, that love had not been enough to save her.

Amanda's heart ached to watch his face cringe with the return of unbearable recollections. A resurrection of memories better left forgotten, until she'd dredged them up to the surface of his conscious.

_Who's life did you ruin, Mark?_

_The man who fucking killed my sister._

_Someone that I knew was damn well guilty and needed to be locked up._

_I'm paying for it…I'm still paying for it…_

"I guess I can understand why you did it," she said, shifting nervously. "Why you would do that…if he…if he killed your sister…"

Mark seemed to come back to her for a moment, his eyes looking up at Amanda, unwavering, as though he had to convince himself she was really there. He wasn't so sure of anything at the moment. His face seemed to sag, his faded eyes looked haunted, trapped between two worlds, the past and the present, the living and the dead.

"After you asked Eric to…do you this favor, you couldn't just turn him in for the other cases…so you were…well, you were kinda stuck keeping quiet."

"Yeah," he said, his eyes gazing up at her, praying she'd see the situation through his eyes, appreciate the reasons for his secrecy. He desired some kind of validation for what he'd done, someone to understand he'd been a man with no options, a fact John had failed to see. And most of all, he just longed for absolution, from Amanda, from anyone really. But not even Amanda knew the whole story...

"I'm sorry," Amanda whispered. Mark's tears had come and gone so quickly Amanda would almost think she'd hallucinated them if the streaks hadn't remained as a lingering reminder. "I guess I shouldn't have…overreacted until I knew all the facts. I'm sorry about what happened to your sister. For what you had to go through."

Mark nodded his head, wiping away the wet residue on his face, a little ashamed but mostly just emotionally worn out from their latest argument. Amanda was about to say something about the tears, how she hadn't meant to hurt him so badly, but she forgot her apology once the sharp spasm of pain searing through her spine shook up her thought process. The back ache had remained dormant and forgotten for several minutes, and the sudden relapse into pain had brutally intensified. Amanda recoiled and her face grimaced in response.

"Fuck," she groaned.

"What is it?" he asked, relieved for the disruption, although greatly concerned for her as well. He dashed over to Amanda, nearly tripping on a fallen stool, and kneeled down next to her.

"My back. It's nothing," she said quickly, imaging Mark retrieving the medical kit. Him and his damn gauze and magic fingers that sent thrilling waves of delight through her body every time he even brushed against her.

"It's clearly not 'nothing' or you wouldn't be wincing," he accused.

"Well…it's my back. Ever since the fight with Eric, my spine…it hurts sometimes."

"How badly? Dehabilitaing? Can you still move?" he asked. He turned to look at the area on the small of her back that Amanda gripped with her hand.

"It's not that bad," she lied, willing herself to shut up and be strong. "Probably just pulled something…"

Mark slid her hand away and began rubbing her back in small circles, kneading in a clockwise motion. She arched her back, at first surprised by his fingers on her skin, relieved from the pain he seemed to be shedding away more and more with every rotation of his thumbs.

"You don't have to…" she said, looking over her shoulder and gauging his expression. All of his facial features were neutral, and he appeared to be concentrating on her back as though it were a crossword puzzle rather than a tender spot on her body he was touching, making her heart hammer in her chest in rhythm with his hand movements. He casually unclasped her bra and continued to ascend up her back, causing Amanda to emit a sudden gasp of surprise.

"That's really unnecessary," she mumbled, enjoying the feel of his fingers rubbing against her anyway. Her body seemed to have other ideas though, and instead of pulling away, she merely writhed against his hands…into his hands.

"You can…you should stop," she repeated, becoming a little breathless as the pressure deepened. His thumbs performed the majority of the action alleviating her pain. It was his sneaky fingers that sent Amanda's imagination spiraling into the dangerous territory of her fantasies as the tips of his fingers fondled her sides, casually brushing against her ribs and nearly touching the edge of her breasts as his hands traveled upwards.

"Amanda," he said, his mouth treacherously close to her left ear, delving her even deeper into her daydreams.

"What?" she whispered, her eyes closing as the fantasy progressed. Fantasy Mark was so much further along in pleasing her than reality Mark…already caressing parts of her that were unfortunately still clothed…

"Shut up," he said, reverting back to a normal voice.

_Damn it, damn it damn it._

She obliged, too lost in enjoying the sensation to care about something as trivial as words. She inhaled deeply and let out a half moan that partly got caught in her throat. The sound amused Mark.

"You have knots in your back…to much stress from that damn pointless argument," he said.

"Mmmm…then don't stop," she said. She didn't intend for it to sound so seductive, but they were both aware that she had indeed given him an invitation. It would be so easy to retort with a witty reply, to tease her…but the mood wasn't right. A jovial atmosphere was required for that kind of banter, and the gravity of what had just transpired a few minutes ago still clung to their minds like a desperately needy child grasping onto a parent figure.

"Does that feel better?" he asked after several minutes had passed, slowing his movements to a near stop. For a moment, she was unable to produce real words.

"Uh-huh," she finally managed to get out. "John should design a trap that involves twisting someone's spine or snapping it in half. It's the most painful fucking thing ever."

Mark chuckled, but she detected that it was a fake laugh, as mechanical as Billy the puppet's. Amanda felt awful, knowing that was her fault. But her mind quickly shifted from what she'd done to him to what he was doing to her. His hands were _sliding _around her back now, no longer impelling into her muscles, but rather stroking her skin, as though he were deriving enjoyment from touching her now. Amanda looked over her shoulder and saw a familiar look in Mark's eyes…dazed, glossed over, _hypnotized…_that same look he had before he kissed her. Was he really thinking about that now? Or was his mind still lost somewhere else, in a time long before Amanda even knew him, if indeed, she even knew him now.

"Amanda," he breathed against her neck.

"Yes?" she near moaned. His hands had taken on a combination of caressing and kneading, and he must have, _had to be_, intentionally paying more attention to her sides than before. Once he'd come so close to her breasts she was almost sure he was going to slide on up and palm both of them.

"That kiss…we have to talk about it eventually…" he murmured.

"Okay. So let's talk about it. Why did you kiss me?" she asked.

Mark raised an eyebrow, not that Amanda could appreciate the gesture from her position.

"Why'd you stop?" Amanda protested when his hands lowered. Still in contact with her skin, but immobile, refusing to cooperate with her wishes until she fessed up.

"Why did_ I_ kiss _you_? Amanda, I think it was pretty _reciprocated_ situation."

Amanda blushed, smiling slightly as she thought back to that day.

"Okay, so it was," she admitted. "Well, why do you think it happened?"

"I think it's pretty obvious, Amanda," he said, his hands sliding up several inches to highlight his point. He leaned forward so that his face neared hers. She rolled her eyes to the side to match gazes with him. His eyes brightened up as he stared at her, so luminescent despite nothing bright enough in the room to bring out that kind of shine.

"I _want you_, and I'm pretty confident that you want me as well, or you wouldn't be letting me put my hands all over you this freely…"

Amanda scowled.

"My back hurts. Do you really think I'd just make that up because I'm so desperate I have to scheme to get you to put your hands on me?" she snapped. He smirked, his first real smile since their conversation began.

"No…but what about that night in Euphoria?" he asked slyly. "I'm pretty sure your back wasn't hurting then…"

"Okay, okay. So…" Amanda said, her thoughts tossed away as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer to him so that his chest pressed against her bare back, and she was literally sitting in his lap. She gasped in surprise at the sudden bold move.

"I suppose it's not fair to ask you to do all this talking and thinking while I'm touching you like this…so what do you say we stop…talking and thinking for a little while," he asked, sliding his hands up…and up…his index fingers nestled right beneath her breasts.

"I think…that sounds like the best idea you've had all day," she smirked, sealing it with a kiss that ended not in interruptions or outbursts, but only in more passionate kisses.

**Author's Note: I'd kill for a back massage from Mark Hoffman (or Costas Mandylor). Hell, I'd kill just to GIVE him a back massage…if it includes the happy ending. :D**

**Alternate name for this chapter: Feel Up what I Feel **

**Btw, I'm pretty sure you guys are going to really like the next chapter…it picks up right after this one.**


	22. The Heart Cannot Be Involved

**Timeline: Right after last chapter**

**Rating: R for sexual content**

**Chapter 21**

**The Heart Cannot Be Involved**

"**I can help you change tired moments into pleasure.  
Say the word and we'll be well upon our way.  
Blend and balance**

**Pain and comfort  
Deep within you  
'Till you will not want me any other way." –Tool, **_**Stinkfist**_

Passionate kisses followed their first; their tongues slid against each other as Mark's hands slipped upwards to cup both of Amanda's breasts. She was still nestled in front of him, her back against his broad chest. As she'd only been able to fantasize about before, Mark kneaded her breasts in the same manner he'd massaged her back; in rotation, alternating between soft and hard in perfect tempo. He circled her nipples in sync with her moans, and the pink nubs hardened beneath the tips of his thumbs.

"Mark," she whimpered, breaking their kiss as she squirmed against him, her buttocks and lower back rubbing against his crotch in response to the movement of his agile hands. He visualized her naked already, imagined simply lifting her on top of him and impaling her on his already swelling cock. He had thought about where this could lead as he was massaging her pain away…but now those fantasizes were accelerating in overdrive because it _was actually happening._

"Amanda…" he gasped as she rubbed her backside against him with more force, his hardness pressed against her soft flesh, wedging in the crevice between her cheeks. She felt him stiffen underneath her; the combination of his slacks and her cotton shorts lacked a strong barrier to guise the pulsating of his cock, throbbing harder with her every moan encouraging him onward.

He squeezed her pert nipples and leaned into her neck to leave a trail of slightly breathless kisses, his mouth parted as he panted between each one. She shivered in response to the hot, moist breath on her neck.

"God, that feels…_so good_…" she moaned, the vibration in her throat ringing against Mark's lips. Her voice adopted a tone of complete rhapsody, the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. He wanted to see the blissful facial expression that matched that lovely voice. Mark removed his hands from under her shirt, and she responded as he predicted she would. As soon as he freed Amanda of his binding embrace, she spun around and attacked him with more fervent kisses. She shoved him against the mattress and grinded her heated centre against the exciting throbbing sensation beneath his work slacks, straddling him like…

_A mechanical bull at rodeo week…and I'll bet he thrusts like one too…_

His hips bucked upwards, nearly toppling her off of him and proving her conjecture correct. Amanda's smoldering heat trapped in the delta between her legs tempted him into seriously considerating shredding those flimsy shorts beyond repair. She smiled as his face contorted in an expression of sheer pleasure, eyes squeezed shut, eyebrows furrowed, mouth gaping open as he gasped for air. It felt both amusing and extremely arousing to observe the usually stolid detective who always strived for control in any situation groaning and thrusting beneath her, panting with parted lips, looking so _out of control_, so out of his element…and she was the one he had relinquished his control to. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared up at her with a ravenous expression. Her smile widened. How very in character of Mark to bring that intensity into every area of his life…even the bedroom.

"Amanda, what are you trying to do me…dry hump me into insanity? Are you going to take your clothes off, or am I going to have to tear them off of you?"

"Sorry, Mark. Just enjoying the show. It's amusing to see a detective lose control for once," she purred in response.

He laughed, and his hands progressed up her outer thighs.

"Glad I amuse you. _Lose control…_" he shook his head. "Amanda, you haven't seen anything yet…but I'll show you…just how fucking out of control I can get."

Before she could counter with a witty reply, he rolled her over on her back and grabbed the waistline of her shorts- no zipper or buttons to fumble with, thankfully- and he swiped them off with one quick motion, revealing black, sheer panties underneath. Not red, although the color she wore would have been close second choice for Mark, and not that it mattered since it would soon be discarded, but he looked at Amanda curiously, fingering the outline of the thin textile, wondering for a moment if Amanda had somehow anticipated this…

"What? Oh…" she blushed furiously, realizing what he must be thinking. She didn't know if it would be more humiliating to tell him all her underwear looked something like that because of her previous job at Euphoria, or if she should just let him make his own assumptions. She decided to remain silent and let him run with his train of thought, why not let it boost his ego a little to think she'd picked them out just for him.

Mark slipped the scanty panties down her legs, so thin he could see his fingers on the other side, and flung them across the room into a random pile of clothes on her floor. He gazed at Amanda for a few seemingly everlasting moments, as though he needed to memorize every detail of her and forever imprint the image in his mind. He locked eyes with her, and they shared another kiss before he plunged two fingers inside of her. She sucked in a short gasp of air, and her pelvic muscles contracted as she became accustomed to the feeling of him inside of her. He pumped his fingers in and out of her, his thumb pressing down on her clit, before sliding another finger into her opening, stretching her, reawakening the woman in her that had been dormant for so long…_too long. _

Amanda writhed beneath him, arching upwards to meet his thrusts. He pulled out, his hand now drenched in her sweet wetness, and his tongue wrapped each individual digit, lapping up the residue, tasting her. He salivated in response to her scent, his hard-on demanding to be released from the confinement of his pants and into her. _Now._

She yanked her shirt over her head and her bra, already unclasped from earlier, fell off with it. Without hesitation, Amanda reached for his belt and began shedding him of his clothes with as much satisfaction he'd felt in stripping away hers. Her taut nipples nudged against his chest while she unbuttoned his shirt. As she reached the last button, she gazed up at him with a wicked smile whilst her hand slipped under the fabric veiling his massive hard on and grasped it at the base. His burning erection pulsed with a steady rhythm like a beating heart. He shuddered as she stroked him, using one hand to jerk him off while the other stayed preoccupied with unzipping his pants and removing the last of his clothing.

"You _are_ losing control, Mark…because I'm _taking_ it," Amanda teased with a mischievous smile, squeezing him to emphasize her point.

"That so?" he panted. His thighs quivered as her motions picked up speed. He tossed his head back and growled.

"I think you're on to something_...but two can play that game, Amanda_," he said, and reached for her, his fingertips sliding up her inner thigh and then once again entering that delicious part of her. She thrusted up and down in response, her breasts bouncing as his fingers worked to bring her closer to release.

"What's wrong, Amanda. _Losing control?" _he whispered in her ear, quite desperate for air himself.

"Oh, _fuck!_" she moaned, her mouth opening wide in a breathless gasp. She continued to stroke Mark with one hand as the other clawed into his flesh. They carried on like that, stimulating one another, their eyes burning into each other, feasting on the sight of every tinge of emotion that displayed on the other's face, every twinge of unsurpassable pleasure tainting their expressions with lust.

"Say it," Mark taunted. Amanda looked at him in an odd combination of total lust and slight curiosity. "Tell me that you want me. Tell me that you want me to fuck you. Tell me that…"

_That you want me…That you've been wanting me, ever since the first night we saw each other. Tell me that you've been fighting this as long as I have._

"I want you, Mark," she said, interrupting his thoughts with her desperate pleas, "Now. I want you to _fuck me right…now. Please…Mark!" _Her words were lost in a moan as he obliged.

Her body trembled as he entered her, such a wonderful shock to her system to feel him inside of her. Their bodies found a perfect rhythm almost instantly, as if by innate intuition. He hovered over her, alternating the uses of his delightfully plump lips between kissing her own and moving lower to suck on her neck. He savored the salty taste of her flesh, driving him even more insane with lust. Mark propelled faster within her as she vocalized her pleasure with louder and more frequent moans. As her voice escalated to a scream, he leaned back, parting his mouth from her so that he could watch her face. Her every expression and movement fascinated him, made him fuck her harder as the sight of her becoming more desperately aroused made his own body respond the same way, sending him into a frenzy.

Mark verged on the peak of desire, kept at bay only by the insatiable craving to watch her reach her ecstasy first, to see the expression of total yearning in Amanda's face before succumbing to the pleasure himself. His patience paid off. She came, screaming his name while her nails drilled into his back, completely an involuntary response, like a small animal that knows instinctively to burrow beneath soil. Hot liquid spread beneath her fingertips. Mark's blood, or simply his perspiration? Both thoughts turned her on, her body tensing, pulling him in deeper and clinching tighter than before. The image of Mark's glistening skin and the thought of a hot mixture of sweat and blood beneath her nails sent her into another fit of screams as the pinnacle of her orgasm became only the mere preamble, and another more intense wave of pleasure crashed over her.

"Oh, _fuck! Yes! Ohhh, Mark! MARK_!" she screamed, as her blood red nails dug even deeper. Mark grunted in response. Although he felt the pain, his mind could hardly process the source. The sensations of pain, pleasure, and the unforgettable vision of Amanda coming underneath him and howling his name, completely out of control of her own body and so completely under _his_ control, if only for a few idyllic moments until the pleasure faded, were enough to send his mind into a spin of ecstasy.

The sight of her clinging to him as the last moments of her orgasm faded sent him over the edge. The end of her euphoria was replaced by the sensation of hot liquid shooting deep within her. Mark tossed his head back as he spilled himself inside her, his hands kneading into her flesh as he pounded into her. His entire lower body shuddered. He closed his eyes as the pleasure enthralled his every nerve ending into a kind of senseless bliss. Time mitigated the intensity of the sensation, and he collapsed next to Amanda after it finally died away.

He laid beside her, catching his breath and feeling his heartbeat decelerate. Her body heat radiated onto him. Her skin felt like a thousand degrees, like fire engulfing him as her head leaned against him, and her arm tentatively crossed over his chest. How strange that mere moments ago when enraptured in absolute desire she could hardly claw her way close enough against him, yet at the present she hesitated with her every touch.

Words seemed necessary, but the right ones…out of grasp. So they basked in the post-sex sensation of racing hearts, the aroma of sweat, the feeling of their still scorching hot bodies so near each other. The longer the silence became, the more awkward the prospect of breaking it felt. Amanda looked over at Mark, and his disheveled hair and content face made her beam. He returned the smile and kissed her. As always, one kiss inevitably led to another, and soon then they were lost in passion again, words and explanations discarded as easily and carelessly as their forgotten clothes on the floor.

* * *

"This isn't how I wanted this to happen!" Mark said in defense, looking incredibly irritated for someone who'd had such a pleasant and eventful time the night before, with a good long respite afterwards. Probably the best sleep he'd had in years. Somehow he'd forgotten how good the feeling of having someone in bed beside him could be, and somehow an awkward, "Good morning" from a man Amanda had been very startled to find in her bed, much less naked and clinging to her own bare body, had turned into a very nasty argument at nearly record speed.

"So you_ wanted_ this to happen?" she asked as though Mark had been mischievously plotting the entire thing, as if he'd known her back would be hurting and where massaging her would lead to.

"I thought about it. Considered it," he confessed, looking a little guilty and shy, despite laying in her bed nearly exposed and making no effort to get dressed or conceal himself better than the small sheet covering his lower half. Amanda sat as far away from Mark as possible on the tiny mattress and briefly scoped around the room for clean clothes. She looked at Mark again.

"Considered it?" she asked. One eyebrow rose suspiciously.

"What?" he said with a shrug. "Well, I wasn't_ expecting_ it obviously. But the way things were going between us, it…didn't seem like such a stretch to imagine that-"

"So you considered it. Did you consider it a good idea, or a bad one?" Amanda asked, eyeing Mark up and down, her eyes inadvertently lingering a moment too long in the _down_ area.

"Just…considered it," he said, not wanting to admit he had never really focused so much on what he expected to happen afterwards as much as the act itself.

"Come on, Mark. Give me more than that," she said, crossing her arms over her breasts, looking uncomfortable.

_Just stop talking,_ he thought. Mark wasn't sure if that thought was directed at her or himself. He reasoned it was most likely a self-criticism. Nothing he said was coming out right. It made sense to himself at least, but once verbalized, Amanda seemed to interpret everything he said in the worst way possible.

"What I meant was that this isn't how I would _have chosen_ for this to happen," he said, and it was the truth. He definitely would have planned better. For one thing, contraception didn't seem so trivial in hindsight. Nor would he have chosen the warehouse as the location for their rendezvous. His innocent remark meant only one thing to Amanda.

"…So what _are _you really saying?" she asked, and he realized he truly had no idea. Somehow the words coming out of his mouth weren't matching up to what he was trying to convey, and Amanda was too damn impatient this morning to even try to interpret. She leapt out of bed and began rummaging around for clothes. Mark tried to figure out a way to make her understand exactly what was going on in his head, as he tried to understand it himself.

"What I really meant to say was that-" he began to say, but Amanda cut him off.

"This was a mistake," she said as though finishing his sentence and also telling him off as well, and the moment the words came out of her mouth she believed them with overwhelming conviction. She threw on the rest of her clothes, trying to dismiss the indignation of having to storm out of her own room in order to get away from him; she needed space and time in order to think about everything.

"Thanks for the fuck, Mark," she said, but it didn't come out nearly as cruel and callous as she intended because of the strain of trying not to break into tears. She slammed the door behind her and went into another room, hoping Mark would have enough sense to leave her alone for awhile.

Amanda acted on instinct, and her mind was telling her two things. She needed to escape Mark; she couldn't think clearly when he was in the same room as her, much less naked in her own bed, and she also knew that she needed to find John, like a lost soul seeking confession for fresh, unforgiven sins. Of course, she knew she wouldn't breathe a word of what happened. The mere thought of doing so sent a humiliating shudder through her. The shame she'd feel, if he ever found out she had screwed…the help? The heavy lifter? The guy who only stuck around because he fucked up a case badly and needed John to keep quiet? The thought of John knowing she had those kind of feelings at all for Mark, despite them being natural, human feelings, made her checks burn with humiliation. It would be a sign of weakness in John's eyes, a sign of betrayal. What if he decided she wasn't good enough to carry on his legacy after all? What if he could never stand to look her in the face again? What if she disappointed him, and once again became that unlovable person absolutely no one in the world gave a shit about?

"Amanda," she heard John say from behind her. Her eyes widened, and she froze in place. It was as though he'd gotten inside her head at last. Could he see her memories of last night, read the guilt in her expression? Amanda then realized the reason she'd needed to see John right away. She had to know if she'd been ruined, if the omniscient John Kramer would take one look at her and just know everything that had transpired between her and Mark. It was an impossible thought. No one could really just look at someone and know they'd fucked somebody the night before; she's had enough cheating ex-boyfriends in her past to prove that fact. Before she met John, Amanda never would have imagined something so ridiculous, yet somehow she could almost believe it was possible, and that made her heart race like never before.

She gathered the courage to turn around and look John in the eyes.

"Yes?" she said, sounding tiny and squeaky, like a frightened mouse.

"It's time to begin setting up our next game," John said simply. Amanda nodded. Relief washed over her. Business as usual.

"And call Mark. We'll need his assistance."

She felt strained from remaining silent about the secret that gnawed inside of her. She needed to think about Mark and his place in her life objectively, and at the same time, she also needed to eradicate every thought of him out of her mind completely, because the only ideas coming to her were definitely not objective. The tempting memories of the night before flooded her conscious, making detachment unattainable.

"Yeah, I'll get right to it," she replied before leaving the room, inwardly groaning at the thought of facing Mark again so soon. John was too preoccupied with his own contemplations to notice that Amanda was focused on many thoughts as well, and not one of them related to their next test subjects.

**Author's Note: Hope you guys enjoyed reading this chapter, the first part was especially fun to write. Poor Mark, what **_**was**_** he trying to say? Maybe you'll find out in the next chapter. ;) **


	23. Emotionally There Can Be Nothing There

**Timeline: An hour later**

**Rating: Pg-13**

**Ch 22**

**Emotionally There Can Be Nothing There**

"**What a wicked game you play  
To make me feel this way  
What a wicked thing to do  
To let me dream of you **

**No, I don't want to fall in love  
****[This love is only gonna break your heart] ****  
No, I don't want to fall in love  
With you ."**

**-Chris Isaak, **_**Wicked Game**_

Amanda finally remembered where she'd seen the man who was going to be their next test subject. He had been one of the security guards at Euphoria, the last person who'd seen her before her own test. It finally made sense why she had such a hard time identifying him. Besides the fact that she had been trying to repress all memories of her past life as a junkie, she's been coming off a high when she saw him. It was only when she read his name and job description that she recalled him, lingering in the back of her subconscious among other fragmented memories, nightmares and secret desires.

As Amanda looked over the file, she felt Mark's presence beside her. She continued pretending to be preoccupied, hanging on to those precious final seconds of solitude while hoping that when she looked up, he would be gone, along with all of the complicated feelings inside of her.

"We have to talk about what happened," Mark said. Realizing she no longer had a choice, she glanced at him. It was a little easier to keep her focus now that he was clothed, but only slightly.

_Are you going to take your clothes off, or am I going to have to tear them off of you?_

Sudden flashbacks jolted her out of the conversation and into the erotic memories she'd been trying to suppress all morning by distracting herself with John and the plans for the next could see it so clearly. Hell, she could almost feel it, even now. Her body wouldn't let her forget his hands caressing her, his passionate kisses, ending abruptly as he panted in her ear…

_Say it._ _Tell me that you want me. Tell me that you want me to fuck you._

"Amanda, I think we had a serious misunderstanding this morning," Mark said. He sat in a chair adjacent to Amanda and put a hand on her shoulder. She glanced at it, clearly annoyed, but she didn't push him away. Mark felt it was a small victory.

"_Really? _Because I thought the conversation was pretty crystal clear," she said, jerking backwards and out of his grasp, as he knew she would.

"I suppose you _would_ think that considering you stormed out of the room before I could explain-"

"Explain _what_, exactly?" Amanda said, and then she laughed, a bitter and sarcastic little sound. "That everything that happened last night was a mistake? I get it. You don't have to explain anything. You don't have to sugarcoat it for me. It was fun. We had a great time and we…we got it out of our systems. And now it's done. Over. I got it. And I'm fine with it."

Her tone was almost believable, her words _almost _sounded authentic, but she was like a bad actress who was just reading lines, and a terrible liar who was not convincing at all. Mark imagined that if he hooked her up to the lie detector machine at his work, she'd probably break it with the speed and severity of her lies. The snappy statements near the end of her rant, the pain in her face, and the way her entire body tensed up gave Mark all the signs he needed to know that it definitely _wasn't_ over. She wasn't fine like she said she was, and he wasn't going to let go of something so amazing without a fight, especially if she was feeling the same way he was.

"Amanda, let me be very clear about this. I didn't plan on sleeping with you last night, but I _don't regret it_," he said, leaning down to look her in the face as she tried to avoid him. He wouldn't let her hide or storm away from him. Not this time.

"We had a connection last night, Amanda, and it wasn't just physical. I know it, and you know it, even if you can't admit it," Mark snapped. He shook his head, ran his hand through his hair, and tried again, knowing that just like any other interrogation, the truth would inevitably come out if he persisted.

"We've had this connection for a long time," he said in a lower voice. He stood closer to her and in front of the door, intentionally obstructing her from the nearest exit. "It's why we keep being drawn to each other. It's why we can't stop thinking about each other. It's why-"

Amanda tried to dart out of the room, but Mark block her with his arm, and leaned down closer to her face, making eye contact unavoidable.

"It's why you don't trust yourself alone in a room with me. Because it makes you doubt yourself, your self control. You lose control when you're around me because you want me like…like the way I want you," he said, the last part came out in a low, nearly breathless voice, taking an obscene amount of courage to make such a confession. But in a way, he'd already confessed. They both had, merely by the way their bodies had reacted to each other, the way they couldn't stop staring at each other, couldn't stop craving each other. It had been a night of pure lust, a playful power struggle, a way to release the growing tension between them…but it had also been the revelation of a connection between them. He could feel what she was feeling, he didn't just want her to satisfy him, he _needed_ to feel her and have her feel him, and he wanted to be with her again...even now, as she was resisting him, rejecting his advances and demeaning his emotions all at once, he still felt that connection she denied. The only way he could continue to stand her torment was that he knew she felt it too.

"Shut up! Just shut up!" she shouted, knowing he was right. She turned away from him and searched for an alternate exit. Mark grabbed Amanda's arm to prevent her from leaving. She stiffened, and with a gradual pace like that of the hand that counts seconds on a clock, she turned around and looked at Mark with a nearly neutral expression she fought to preserve, despite her emotions being anything but steady. It was an awful feeling, just like withdrawal all over again. She didn't lose a habit; she'd just changed her drug of choice.

_I can't do this. I can't replace an old addiction with a new one. And that's what it is. It's addiction._

"Amanda…what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking…that I'd really appreciate it if you took your fucking hand off of my arm," she said coldly, and pulled away from him again.

"That's…that's really mature," he said, nodding his head and grinding his teeth. He slammed his hand into the doorway, causing Amanda to twitch, a knee jerk reaction to the sudden movement. Mark cursed, and leaned his head against the doorway in aggravation caused by both Amanda and the self-inflected injury. He inhaled, and once he felt calm enough to confront her again, he made a conscious effort not to touch her. Apparently last night had created a new no-touching rule.

"I'm being pretty fucking honest here, and I'd appreciate it if you'd show me the same respect and tell me what's going on in your head right now. You feel something for me, _I know it_," he said. He had hurt himself, both physically and emotionally by putting himself out there, exposed in a vulnerable position, but he'd be damned if he didn't come out on top in this argument. He had never been more certain that he was right in his entire life.

"Yes, Mark. I feel something for you, something that's more than just attraction, okay? Happy now?" she shouted. She sighed and looked away, slightly surprised that she'd actually admitted it to herself, much less to him, yet she couldn't take any joy in the acknowledgment. She shook her head and added, in a much more pitiful tone, "But why does it matter that we had a connection if we can't act on it?"

There is was. The real issue presented itself on center stage, the major conflict beginning just as Mark thought resolution was nearly within grasp. He looked confused, so she elaborated.

"I don't regret what happened either. I just don't think there can be…it can't happen again."

"Why not?" he said, and then he closed his eyes as the realization hit him. Through clinched teeth he responded, answering his own question begrudgingly.

"It's because of _him_," he snapped, wanting to break John's neck more than ever before. Still intervening with his life, still doing whatever he could to ruin their lives. The sad part was he did it without even trying now. Without any effort on John's part, his mere presence, his mere _existence _was a hindrance.

Amanda crossed her arms over her chest and talked down to the floor.

"John wouldn't understand. He wouldn't…"

"What we are feeling is very real, human emotions. Of course John wouldn't understand it," Mark replied, the throbbing in his hand seemed to intensify with his anger. He massaged it with the other as he shook his head in utter disbelief.

"That's not true! John…he understands emotions," Amanda protested, although she couldn't really disagree with him about that. John wouldn't understand their emotions. He was too lost in his own obsession with his legacy to see what would have otherwise been a rather obvious bond that was forming between Mark and Amanda for quite awhile. He would assume it was merely physical attraction, a distraction to their work. The worst part was…Amanda had _no idea_ how John would respond. All she knew is that it would be a very negative reaction. Since she had yet to do anything that would displease him, there was nothing to provide a basis for predicting how John reacted to disobedience. She imagined the consequences for betraying him would be awful, and she didn't want to experience being the target of John's wrath.

And another reason, perhaps the main reason, was that she didn't want to disappoint him in any way. There was a love between her and John, a different kind of affection than the feelings that were forming between her and Mark. There was almost nothing she wouldn't sacrifice to preserve that love…unless that meant sacrificing her relationship with Mark. She was surprised at how unbearable the thought suddenly seemed.

She felt torn between what felt like the right thing to do, and what felt like…the other right thing to do. Maintaining John's approval and the new, intimidating but exciting feelings she had for Mark seemed to balance in terms of importance in Amanda's mind. Hence the way she sighed, shook her head, closed her eyes, made every excuse possible to delay decision.

"John does understand emotion. He just…wouldn't understand us," she said. If she hadn't felt so empty, she might have cried. Instead she just looked pitiful and torn, a perfect display of how she felt inside. As far as detaching emotionally went, Amanda was a perfect failure, and as far as hiding those emotions, she was even worse.

Mark's emotion changed along with hers, possibly a side effect of that connection they could no longer deny, as well as the realization that the situation was even more complicated than he had first assumed. He offered an obvious solution, despite knowing Amanda must have already considered it.

"Why don't we just not tell him? It's none of his damn business anyway," he grunted, crossing his arms and staring down the pig mask hanging on a nearby coat rack, reminding him of the man he so strongly despised at that moment.

"Like we could keep it from him!" Amanda exclaimed, nearly laughing at Mark's suggestion that they could keep anything, particularly a secret that big, from the omniscient John Kramer.

"We could try. Isn't it worth a try?" he said, implying he thought it was. What he didn't tell her was that he didn't need yet another reason to wish the old man would die in his sleep, or preferably, in a much more painful way.

"I just don't know," she said. "I just…need time to figure things out. To figure out if it's worth the risk."

_What she really means is, "I just need time to figure out how I feel about you. If _you_ are worth the risk."_

Mark sighed and rubbed the ache between his eyebrows. The argument had made his head begin to throb like his hand.

"Well, when you figure it out, you let me know," he said. Now he felt like storming out of the room, or at least moving out of the way so Amanda could. But unfortunately, they still had work to do, and cooperation was essential, no matter what else was going on between them.

"We should get started," he said, changing the subject entirely. He grabbed the file Amanda was looking at and skimmed through everything as though it were just another file some detective had plopped on his desk at the department.

_**Noah Everett**_

_**Rachel Everett**_

_**Caitlin Miller**_

"Interesting," he muttered, noticing the two matching last names.

"What's interesting?" Amanda asked flatly, wondering how anything could be so fascinating after the words that had just passed between them wore them both out.

"Two of our test subjects have the same last name. Relatives?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Amanda shrugged. The tension in the air seemed to slowly dissipate as they distracted themselves with the details of the test.

"It can't be a coincidence," Mark muttered. He looked through the file some more. "The trap is already finished. That was fast. Sometimes I wonder if John doesn't overplay that sick act…"

Amanda punched his arm. Playful in nature, but painful in reality.

"Yeah, I'm sure he's milking it for the attention," she said. "You're totally unbelievable."

"Ouch," he said, rubbing his new injury. Yet another part of his anatomy that throbbed along with his swelling hand. Although if Amanda kept leaning closer to him, her cleavage already in perfect view, whether she was aware of it or not, she was on the verge of making another part of him begin to throb. Considering the conversation they had just had, he decided that it might be a very unfortunate moment to lose control and do something foolish, such as try to create a replay of last night. As tempting as the thought was, he cleared his throat and scooted several inches away from her. It was the first time he could remember being the one to back away. He infuriated himself, right before he redirected that annoyance towards John. Even when John wasn't in the room, he was in her mind, separating them like a teacher who sends trouble makers, and oh, did Mark want to initiate some trouble at that moment, into a corner for them to learn an important lesson.

_What lesson is that, John? Is there some underlying lesson that I'm not seeing here? Or are you just trying to show off how much control you have over Amanda?_

Mark felt like asking her yet again what the big deal was in John knowing about them. How did either of them even know how John would react, anyway? But Mark knew. Deep down, he was certain of it, even if Amanda remained in the dark.

John would forbid it, simply as another display of power he had over them. He would take advantage of any opportunity he had to rub in just how subordinate they truly were. Even if there was no legitimate reason to keep them apart, that is what John would do. Secrecy would be necessary if they did decide to try to pursue their feelings.

"You'll get Noah around eight, when he gets off his shift. As you're doing that, I'll be at the house getting Rachel…"

'Get' had become John and Amanda's euphemism for kidnap. It irked Mark. Guising the words as something more pleasant didn't change the nature of the action itself. She continued talking, unaware that the movement of her lips was far more interesting than anything she was actually saying.

"…and then the game will begin," she said. She looked at Mark, who tried to wipe the stupid smile off his face as quickly as possible, yet was still several seconds too late. He couldn't resist though. She was attractive when she got intense and serious, even about depraved things such as kidnapping.

"Did you get all of that?" she asked, raising a single eyebrow to display her doubt.

"Yes. Basically, I kidnap Noah at eight, and get his ass here as soon as possible before the drugs wear off."

"Yeah. Just making sure you were paying attention," she said. "You looked distracted."

"I'm fine," he lied. His phone went off. He looked down at the number. Kerry. She called all the time now, convinced every little thing she found was a new break in the case, the thing that might lead them to finding Eric. It would have been endearing if it wasn't so pitiful.

"I have to stop by the precinct before tonight," he said. He checked the time. "Shit. I better go now."

Amanda nodded, unusually quiet. She didn't reply, but her face looked thoughtful and worried. She was still lost in thought about their conversation.

"Amanda," Mark said, waiting to stop himself from saying something he'd later regret, but unable to leave her in such a pitiful state.

_Don't give her an easy way out. Don't you dare!_

"No matter what you decide…I'll be here for you," he said, going against his better judgment, just because no matter how he felt, it simply had to be said.

Amanda looked up, her eyes full of tears. She cried at the drop of a hat it seemed… an endless flow of victims, the inevitable death of her savior looming in the back of her mind, the constant stress of John's demands…Mark had seen her crying many times in his presence, but he'd never seen her smiling as the tears trailed down her cheeks.

"Thank you," she said, a feeble smile emerging, even though it was the last thing she felt like doing. He added yet another factor in her confusing jumble of emotions. Mark wasn't going to hold it against her for denying him a sexual relationship. Yet again, she was astounded by how different he was from everyone else she had ever been with. She winced and looked away from him. Everything he did or said was making it harder and harder to reject him. He left the room, but the pressure wasn't off, and the decision still lingered in her mind, more distracting than ever. But deep inside, she knew it was more a matter of when than if.

_I'm sorry, John,_ she thought. _I'm sorry, but I think I'm about to disappoint you very much…_


	24. Revelation

**Timeline: Hours later**

**Rating: Pg-13**

**Chapter 23**

**Revelation**

"**Someone will say what is lost can never be saved,  
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage."**

–**Smashing Pumpkins, **_**Rat in a Cage**_

It occurred to Mark as he walked into his office that the precinct seemed to function without him these days. How funny that he'd once thought himself irreplaceable. The phones still rang, the analysts still typed, the detectives still sifted through the evidence in search of answers, and yet the whole system was pointless, their efforts leading nowhere, just like a rat that continues to race on the wheel, always ending up where it began. He wondered if they knew they weren't getting anywhere, or had they yet to realize the futility of spinning that wheel?

The ironic part was that because Mark was working on an unsolvable case, he had a lot of time to think about these things.

_You're kidding yourself. The only rat in here…is _you_. _

"Mark," Kerry said, snapping him out of introspection. She had a thick file in one hand and a newspaper article in the other. Her grimace indicated to him that it was bad news. Everything that came from the Herald usually was.

"New article about the Jigsaw Killer?" He asked it like a question despite already knowing the answer.

"Yeah. I don't know _how_ Jenkins gets the information as soon as we do. I think we have a leak in the department," she said, shaking her head in distaste at the theoretical traitor.

"We can't let ourselves get paranoid," Mark said, although he was very preoccupied with the thought. That's all he needed- an annoyingly persistent investigative reporter who happened to have connections in the precinct and a knack for spotting potentially incriminating details. He skimmed the article, which was a lengthy piece covering many topics about the case, everything from more gory facts about the traps, information on the victims and John Kramer, and of course, more criticism of the homicide department. Mark's department. A team he once felt very proud of. By his own fault, he was helpless to truly make any useful advances in the case. The inability to be utilized and the knowledge that Pamela Jenkins was actually right, the department had become incompetent, irritated him to a degree he once thought impossible.

"But I have some good news too. We have someone in interrogation right now that could lead to a break in the case. If it pans out, Jenkins will have to change her tune," she said. Mark craned his head from the newspaper to Kerry to gauge her expression. She looked too exhausted to feel happy. Apparently her lead in the case had come at the expense of severe sleep deprivation.

"About the Jigsaw case? I'm astounded," he said, feeling apprehensive and shocked simultaneously, trying very hard to appear outwardly pleased. He coerced a smile against his reluctant lips.

"We found John Kramer's wife. Ex-wife," she said, correcting herself quickly, her error the result of fatigue. She plopped the file on Mark's desk, covering the hostile newspaper article as though a sign of hope that soon Jigsaw's reign of terror would end, and along with it, Jenkins' scathing criticisms. "Jill Tuck."

"She's in interrogation right now? You didn't consult me first?" Mark asked. What he really was in disbelief about was the fact that John had once been married at all.

"Sorry, Mark. It happened pretty fast and I just didn't think to update you. I apologize," she said. Mark nodded his head to indicate forgiveness.

"I understand, Kerry," he said as he stood up. "Let's not waste any more time."

As Kerry lead him to Room 2, it dawned on him for the first time that John must not have always been the person is presently was, and the thought was astonishing. At one point, John's life may have been…somewhat normal. His department had discovered something about John that even he had not known, despite actually being around the man himself for several months. Mark's department was more competent than he originally assumed. He felt a combination of fear for himself and Amanda, and pride that the detectives, many of them he'd trained personally, were more intelligent than he gave them credit for. Perhaps it wasn't so far-fetched to think that one day _he_ might be on the opposite side of the interrogation, with his own people grilling him for answers.

_Why did you help John Kramer?_ Kerry would ask, her hand on his shoulder, almost compassion in her voice. Mark knew better than anyone that it was all an act of course, to get him to confess. After she discovered Eric's fate, there would be no sympathy from anyone in the precinct.

_Why the hell did you help this son-of-a-bitch_? Rigg would follow up, his chest rising with animosity, his eyes burning into Mark's with so much intensity that he would have to look away in shame.

Good cop, bad cop; an old school method. Nearly as ancient as the art of criminal interrogation itself. The technique was classic, but so effective that everyone from the small, rural local departments to massive agencies such as the FBI and CIA still taught it.

_Don't do that shit to me,_ Mark would retort coldly. _I _taught_ you good cop, bad cop, Kerry. So don't even try. Don't even _fucking_ try…_

_Why did you let him do this to me?_ Eric would ask, if he could. Mark imagined his brutally mutilated friend limping into the interrogation room, using that pole for support. For the first time, Eric's reaction wasn't anger. It was heartache, confusion, pain. Even if Eric couldn't be there, his spirit would, asking him again and again the questions he could never answer.

_How could you do this to me? How could you do this to _anyone, _you _sick fuck_?_

_I had no choice, Eric, _Mark would explain. _You wouldn't understand why I had to do it, so you might as well call my attorney to work out a deal._

Any lawyer willing to represent him would have to be someone smooth and disgusting and soulless, but efficient.

Someone like Art Blanc.

What an ironic turn of events. Even the mere memory of Art Blanc's smug smirk irritated him. Oh, what Mark wouldn't give to never see him ever again. By cruel coincidence, it was as though the thought of Art has summoned him into the room.

_What the fuck is he doing here? I don't need him yet…_

"Jill Tuck," Art said simply, his hands in his pockets, his thumbs protruding on the outside, his chest raised with confidence. The annoying overcompensating gesture made Mark roll his eyes, but at least Art's trademark sneer was suppressed.

"Where are you keeping her?" Art asked as though the woman was a prisoner of war or a princess locked away in a tower somewhere. He looked at Kerry with a hint of compassion.

"I'm sorry about Detective Matthews. I don't know what was going on between you two, but I know he was important to you."

"He's not dead, he's missing," Kerry snapped, her nostrils flaring and her eyes burning into Art's face as though she were trying to melt it from the force of her glare.

"Yeah," Art said, shrugging as if it made no difference. "Regardless of your denial, I offer my condolences for his 'disappearance'…although I suppose I'll have to offer it again when you finally find the body."

"Fuck you," Kerry spat. It wasn't typical of her to react that way to anyone's taunts, but Mark was at least grateful he didn't have to restrain her physically the way he would have had to do to Eric had the situation been in reverse.

"Kerry," Mark said, the single word was full of all the warning and reprimand necessary to calm her down. "Art, what the hell are you doing here?"

"I was supposed to meet Jill this afternoon and imagine my surprise when I find out she's been taken into custody," he said, looking accusingly at Kerry.

"First of all, she's not being interrogated as a suspect…yet. We just need more information on her ex-husband, John Kramer. And for that matter, I think I'd like to ask you a few questions as well. Might be useful to see what you know about your old business associate," she said coolly.

"What?" Mark said, glancing at Kerry with surprise. Another important detail that, in her tired and weary state, she'd forgotten to reveal to him.

"That was a long time ago, Detective," he said in a low growl. "I don't know anything that would be of use to the investigation, as poorly and ineffective as it seems to be going."

"We'll see about that. You just might know more than you realize," Mark said, his voice promising Art his own interrogation.

"Should we get started now, or would you like to call your lawyer first?" Kerry asked with a straight face and a genuine smile, the first one Mark had seen from her since Eric disappeared.

"Very funny," Art said, and the most obnoxious smirk Mark had ever witnessed finally made its debut. "But I wouldn't mind spending a few hours alone with you under…different circumstances."

Kerry kept herself under control this time, making Mark confident in her ability to interrogate Art alone without ripping him to shreds. Not that Mark would have particularly minded.

"Let's get started. I promise you, it's not going to be a fun ride," Kerry said, and for the first time, Mark sensed she was going to go the bad cop route. He smiled, feeling slightly proud, like a father watching his daughter hit a milestone.

"I'll begin the interview with Jill Tuck while her lawyer is otherwise preoccupied," Mark said with a grin, and Kerry dragged Art off to another interrogation room. Mark sighed, and mentally prepared himself before entering Room 2, slightly weary of meeting a woman that was either so blind or else so demented herself that she could marry someone as twisted as John Kramer.

"Ms. Tuck," Mark said, dropping the thick file on the table. He sat down in the chair across from her and grinned as though she were an old friend stopping by to say hello rather than a potential suspect he was about to interrogate in one of the most violent, and certainly the most infamous homicide case he'd ever worked. She looked up at Mark with a stolid stare, remarkably similar to John's typical demeanor. Mark wondered if maybe John and Jill had been drawn to each other by their matching cold and lifeless expressions.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions," he said.

"What do you want to know?" she asked. Her tone didn't match her words. Mark could tell she was not going to easily offer anything. She wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible. Convince them she knew nothing and was not involved with John since the killings began before going on her merry way. Although Mark knew there was no way she was involved, (he undoubtedly would have figured it out by now if she had) he was genuinely curious about Jill Tuck and her relationship with John, and he still had to keep up the charade that he was desperately trying to find the Jigsaw killer.

"You can start by telling me the kind of person John was when you were married to him," Mark said, paused, and then added, "And after. We need to know about the kind of person John was and is now."

"That could take a very long time," Jill said. "I have a clinic to run. I don't have time for a lengthy chat about my ex-husband. Besides, we have been disconnected for a long time. I have no idea who he is now."

Mark began skimming though her file. Something he should have done before he entered the room, although given the time restraint, that really wasn't his fault. Had been any other case, he would have insisted on being more through, but this was hardly any other case. This was a case with no end. Hopefully.

"Disconnected? Did John seem secretive or paranoid while you were still married? Do you know if he kept a room, a safe, a drawer, or something similar that you couldn't have access to?"

"No. He never had anything like that. There were no secrets between us. But near the end of our marriage, he was more…cold. Callous. Unfeeling. In the end, that's what separated us. That's what ended our marriage."

Mark could easily imagine it. That sounded more like the John Kramer he knew.

"Can you think of anything that could have triggered this…sudden change of personality?"

Jill shrugged. "There were a lot of things…did you even read the file? You didn't, did you? That's why your eyes keep drifting towards it instead of me. You should bring in the other detective. She seems a lot more competent."

With that simple statement, Mark's mood shifted from neutral to aggravated in a matter of seconds. She was as annoying and pompous as her attorney.

_Good cop time is over._

"We found a harlequin doll in your possession. What's that about?" he smacked down a picture of John's puppet on the table. The freakish doll seemed to smile back at them.

"It's a toy. The kids play with toys. That's all it is."

She looked away. Hoffman leaned down close to her, invading her personal space, speaking in intimidating whispers. All good questioning techniques that made it look like he was truly digging for answers, even though he was just another rat trapped on the never ending wheel.

"How about the tricycle?" he asked. He circled her predatorily.

"The tricycle is from John's youth," she replied, her face neutral, her voice clearly conveying her irritation.

"A grown man has a tricycle his whole life?" Mark asked skeptically. It was an amusing thought, imagining serious John being sentimental enough to hold on to such a childish object.

"I've sure you've kept things that were important to you," she replied quietly. She had a point, but it was photographs, most of them of Angelina. Not toys. Besides, he didn't take John for the type of man who held onto anything. He didn't think John was capable of that emotion, or any emotion for that matter.

"Look, Ms. Tuck, is there any reason we should be concerned for your safety?"

"Perhaps you should be more concerned for yourself," she snapped. She raised a good point, and not even she knew how completely accurate she was. Time to change the subject again, and quickly.

"Why don't you tell me anything you know about John, and let's start at the beginning," Mark said, leading the discussion elsewhere.

"John's life defies chronology and linear description," she said. Her non-answer reply was quite revealing, although it gave him more insight into her than John. She was intelligent, and a part of her still admired John. Had he once been someone worthy of admiration? But…what was left there to respect now? Talking to her seemed to raise more questions than the ones she answered.

"So why don't we start at the end and work our way backwards?" he suggested, but before Jill could reply, they were interrupted by a third party.

"I represent Ms. Tuck," Art cut in, swooping in like a valiant knight, his designer suit his armor in this legal battle.

"That was quick," he muttered mostly to himself as Art continued to rant about how she was being mistreated by the oh-so-brutal police.

"…interrogated by three different detectives over a period of several hours, taking her away from her patients who desperately need her. This is ridiculous, if you continue this interrogation, we will take legal action-"

Mark tuned out Art's almost textbook tirade on criminal civil rights. The faint ticking of his watch was more enthralling than the constant droning of Art's snobby voice. His attention drifted towards the time. Euphoria was roughly a half hour drive. Noah would be getting off his shift in less than an hour. Mark would be cutting it close unless he left immediately.

"We'll continue this another time then," Mark said, complying with Art and putting up no resistance as he gathered the papers and shoved them into the file before taking off. Mark's easy acceptance of defeat astonished both Art and Jill.

For the first time in Art Blanc's life, he was speechless.

* * *

"Mark, _do not_ get Noah yet," Amanda said, sounding slightly panicked.

"What? Why not? You told me-"

"There was…a complication," Amanda explained. "The trap malfunctioned."

"Oh, shit," Mark said. "What happened?"

"Bad wiring or something. I don't know exactly. All I know is that if someone had actually been in that trap when he tested it…um, well…" she was at a loss for words, but they both knew what she wasn't saying.

"They would be dead," he finished for her. He shook his head in annoyance.

"Well…yeah," she said, her voice shifting uncomfortably.

"So John screwed up."

"Don't! Let's not do this tonight, please," Amanda pleaded, already anticipating where Mark was going to go with this.

"Apparently he's not as all-knowing as you make him out to be. Surely you must see that now?" Mark said, unable to resist attempting to make her see the truth, even now.

"Whatever, Mark. Anyway, the trap isn't ready yet, so hold off on getting Noah."

There is was again. That damn euphemism. 'Get'. Don't 'get' Noah yet. Like he's supposed to pick him up for a fucking surprise party.

_If want to say kidnap or abduct, just fucking say it, Amanda._

"Okay," he said. "By the way…"

_No, Mark. Please. Don't put me on the spot. Not yet…_

"I need you here," she blurted out.

"What?" Mark said, completely taken aback.

"I mean, we need you to help us with a part of the trap. So get here when you can."

"Let me guess…it's something electrical?" he said. Amanda could practically _hear_ him smirking.

"Oh, shut up," she said. He heard an exasperated groan and then a _click._

He chuckled.

"Face it, Mandy, I got you beat in that area," he said, despite knowing she was no longer on the other line. He might not have had the audacity to call her Mandy otherwise. Then again, after last night, he wondered if a simple nickname would really be so out of line. He was surprised with how easily it slipped out too. It felt almost…natural.

"Mandy," he said, nodding his head, pondering it like a foreign word he just learned the meaning to. He liked how it sounded, but he wasn't so sure it would go over well with her. It hadn't even been 24 hours since they'd slept together and he was already thinking of pet names. Then again, she'd had 'Detective' for him since the beginning. Wasn't it only fair?

Maybe he'd just have to save it for a day when he didn't mind pissing her off.

* * *

It was a bit annoying that Mark actually surpassed her in one area. Other than his physical strength, which was an obvious benefit and the primary reason he was a necessity, he was much better than her at electrical wiring. This had been apparent when they were setting up the door that eventually led to Gus's demise. Even John noticed and commented with approval that Mark did have some knowledge in that area, much to Amanda's annoyance.

"See, that's the great thing about you. You don't need to think, Mark. You just need to lift when we tell you to lift," she said with a smile, as all her particularly scathing remarks did. She made her doubt in Mark's abilities very clear and blunt.

"Save it, Amanda. It's gonna work," Mark said, looking over his shoulder to smirk at her. And when it did indeed work, almost perfectly, as he later pointed out to her, she couldn't even come back with a witty reply. She just frowned.

Amanda hated to be wrong.

"Hey, it's all set. We fixed the problem," Mark said, bringing Amanda out of her memory.

"Oh yeah?" she said. "Good."

She was still unusually quiet, meaning she either hadn't made a decision…or the decision wasn't what he wanted to hear. Damn.

"You know, you may think I'm only good for heavy lifting, but you have to admit that in this one area, I might have you beat," he said, smiling.

"Whatever. I still make better traps than you," she shot back. Her head tilted upwards and to the side like a complete snob. Amanda had a competitive streak, and since he was stronger than her and better at wiring, she had to excel him at something.

"That's because-"

He almost said, "That's because John doesn't let me make traps." Not a good idea unless he _wanted_ her sticking her nose in his business and figuring out his connection to Seth. After all, that was the reason Mark wasn't exactly keen on designing traps, and thankfully, John never asked that of him. That was all John and Amanda's area, and he didn't want any part of it.

Luckily, he caught his error before it became uncorrectable.

"I'm not desperately seeking John's approval," he said.

"Oh, please. You don't design anything because you _can't _design anything," she said.

He thought about the hours he'd spent planning and making the pendulum trap…

"It takes a certain_ creative _mind…" Amanda began boasting.

Mark ascended a ladder to set the blade high enough and adjust the angle so that gravity would continue to swing it back and forth as it descended into Seth's abdomen.

"…to invent traps and plan out all the details…"

So he hadn't used tempered steel, but the important thing was that in the end, it still did the job, didn't it? And he wasn't in it for the long haul. He only wanted one single trap, one single victim…

"…something you wouldn't know anything about."

His trap had been crafted with as much meticulous detail and warped creativity that it had passed for one of John's own by the police. In fact, he recalled several detectives saying it was one of Jigsaw's more gruesome traps. What a horrific mess he had made! Blood smeared and guts scattered all over the room as though someone had taken a chainsaw to Seth and just went at it. Despite the brutality, the only person Mark felt sorry for was the poor bastard who had to clean up what remained of him.

"Yeah," Mark replied, "You're probably right about that. I'll just stick to the heavy lifting and electrical wiring. You and John and can have all the fun designing things to kill people with."

"Rehabilitate, not kill!" Amanda protested. As far as Mark was concerned, it was just another one of their euphemisms.

"Anyway…" Amanda said, wanting to deter the subject as she always did when the conversation lead back to their most frequent argument. "How's the case going? Got any leads?"

"Oh, yeah. We're gonna nail that son-of-bitch any day now."

Amanda giggled. It was an old joke, not even a very good one, but it never seemed to expire. The way he kept a straight face every single time made it even funnier. But deep inside, it also sparked a bit of fear in both of them. The department didn't know about Amanda's involvement…yet. But every time she asked, there was a tiny part of her that worried they'd find a fingerprint, a piece of DNA, something that would tie her into the case. Maybe that's why the joke was still funny. It wasn't humor, but just relief that made her laugh.

"Actually, I did find out something very interesting at work today," Mark said.

"What?" Amanda said, her eyes widening with concern. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"Whoa, relax-"

_Mandy._

"Amanda." He caught himself. Next time he might not be so lucky. "It's nothing to worry about. Nothing…incriminating."

"Oh. Than what is it?"

"Did you know John was married?" Mark said.

"What?" Amanda said. She looked baffled.

"Yeah, that was my reaction too," he smirked. "I stopped by work and Ms. Jill Tuck, formerly Mrs. Jill Kramer, was in my interrogation room."

"That's just…weird. Well, what did they want with her?"

"Just to ask her some questions. Nothing in particular. Standard stuff."

"What's she like?" Amanda pried. Mark gratified her curiosity.

"Well, I didn't talk to her that long. But she's intelligent and…cold. Pretty much how I would imagine any woman would be after being married to John for several years."

"That's just a weird idea. I can't really picture him married," she said, making a face like a small child grossing out over the sight of their parents having a public display of affection.

"Yeah. So much for detaching emotionally," Mark muttered, loud enough for Amanda to hear.

"What are you getting at, Mark?" Amanda asked.

"Well," he said, "He lectures us on 'detaching emotionally', yet he was married once."

"I'm sure it was a long time ago," Amanda said flatly. "I'm sure the detaching thing only applies now, because now there is a legacy to fulfill."

"Yeah, I guess so. Kind of contradicts with 'Cherish your life' though. I mean, it's kind of hard to do that without having some emotional connection to people," he said. He had given a lot of thought to things John said, and the more he thought about it, the more he found contradictions. Or perhaps, he admitted, he hated the man so much they merely seemed like contradictions in his own mind. Regardless, he was pretty certain he'd snagged a hole in John's philosophy this time, unless 'Cherish your life," only applied to the rest of society, and they were somehow exempt, which really didn't seem fair at all. It was pretty much the only Jigsaw mantra he thought worthy of merit. If it applies to anyone, it should apply to everyone.

"Yes, Mark, I guess John is just a big fucking hypocrite. There, I said it. Are you happy now?" Amanda sneered.

"You _know_ what would make me happy," he said. He looked down at her, all the hostility washed away from his features. He looked both hopeful and melancholy at once. Amanda sighed away the anger in a single deep breath. It was hard to stay mad at him when he looked at her like that. It was hard to stay mad at him at all, so long as he wasn't attacking John.

"Yeah, I know," she said. "I just…need to think about it more," she said, looking up at him with uncertainty. He nodded his head and bit his lip, bit back words he wanted to say. He had pleaded his case enough already. No more pressure until she gave him a firm 'no'. Then, if she did deny him, it would be a different story. She wouldn't be able to say a simple hello without him compelling her to change her mind.

They could be good together. Hell, he _knew_ they were good together. _And she knew it too_. That was probably the most infuriating part. Knowing she wanted him just as much and knowing she wouldn't do anything about it.

The other infuriating part just walked through the door as Mark was mulling that over in his mind.

"The game will begin tomorrow night," John said after he walked into the room. His presence silenced them both immediately. Amanda bowed her head slightly, as she frequently did when John entered the room, a subconscious act of subservience. Mark just glanced over at him with annoyance for the disruption, although hopefully John had not caught on that he was interrupting anything.

"Okay," Mark said. He lingered, looking at Amanda wistfully. He saw John looking at him strangely. It dawned on Mark that he was probably wondering what he was still doing there. The task he'd needed him for was over and his business with him completed; he had been dismissed for the day. Sticking around wasn't going to help Amanda decide anyway, as much as he'd like to think his mere presence might help in the decision making process…or else muddle her mind completely and help him claim another unfair victory like the night before.

"Tomorrow night, I won't forget," he said, grabbing his keys and jacket. He changed to a sarcastic tone as he added, "I'll circle it on my calendar."

"Okay then," John said, ignoring the sarcasm, treating him like an obnoxious fly he couldn't swat away. He nodded his head slowly in agreement. "Good."

_If I did, you can bet I would fucking write 'kidnap' instead of 'get'. I'd actually own up to it like a man, you passive aggressive son of a bitch._

"Have a good night, Mark." John said, coaxing him out the door, a final warning.

_Fuck off and die. Preferably painfully, and soon._

"Good night, John," Mark said, impressing even himself at how almost genuine it sounded. It was common knowledge between the three of them that Mark hated him, but not even John had any idea just how much. He didn't know that Mark often had brief daydreams throughout the day of putting John in one of his own traps, or even just taking him out in an old school fashion, like shooting him in the head or smothering him with a pillow. Classic, but effective. He didn't know about how Mark had planned all the ways he'd like to kill him, and all the ways he could set it up so that it would look like suicide or an accident. Maybe his own trap would malfunction and kill him.

God, why hadn't Amanda called him to tell him John had died in his own trap? Such beautiful irony that would be…

Granted, that "box of information" John apparently had stashed away somewhere might be quite an inconvenience after he was dead, and it was discovered, but it couldn't hurt to dream, could it?

No, John didn't know the extent of one of his accomplice's seething hatred, and Mark liked to keep it that way, because he wasn't foolish enough to assume he was irreplaceable. On the contrary, he was quite expendable, and he knew it too. Better to shut his mouth and bottle up his anger than to make John decide he was no longer worth the risk or trouble of maintaining.

Besides, one day he'd be free of him. John Kramer couldn't live forever…even if it was beginning to feel like it.


	25. Sacrifice

**Timeline: The next day**

**Rating: R, for excessive violence**

**Chapter 24**

**Sacrifice**

"**Love of two is one,  
Here but now they're gone…  
The door was open and the wind appeared,  
The candles blew then disappeared,  
The curtains flew then he appeared... saying don't be afraid,  
Come on, baby... and she had no fear…**

**Come on Baby…don't fear the reaper."**

**-Blue Oyster Cult, **_**Don't Fear the Reaper**_

"Have you given it any more thought?" Mark asked. He didn't have to specify. It was obvious to both of them what he was referring to. He knew she had given it thought. It was obvious every time he looked at her that she still struggled with indecision.

"Now's not the time, Mark," she said, grunting as she dragged the red head into the adjoining cage next to Noah. She accidentally smacked the poor girl's head into the cage as Amanda tried to pull her inside.

"Oops," she said sheepishly. Her eyes widened in surprise. She looked up at Mark and formed a little guilty smile. "That's gonna leave a bruise."

"I think, given the present situation, that's the least of her concerns," Mark said, looking around the trap with unease. He wanted to get both of them out of there as soon as possible. The trap had already malfunctioned once, and Mark was not a man to doubt the possibility of lightning striking the same place twice…particularly if John Kramer was involved.

"Relax. I'm sure John's worked out all the kinks," she said. She shackled the girl's ankle and yanked on it to ensure the chain was secure.

"Yeah," Mark replied skeptically, crossing his arms over his chest, mentally imploring her to hurry up.

"We're all good to go," she said. She looked up at Mark, still smiling. "I don't know why…but I have a good feeling about this."

"That makes one of us," he said. He shut the cage door behind them, and followed her into the room where they would watch the test unfold. He looked at the monitors and then at Amanda, who was practically beaming. Still so naive after all this time. It was endearing, but also heartbreaking to know she'd soon have to face bleak reality again.

* * *

Noah's eyes fluttered open, glimmering under the florescent bulbs that flickered on and off. The faint brightness illuminated only a small area of the cage. He attempted to stand and ended up stumbling into the wall. His eyes squinted as he tried to recognize his surroundings to no avail. His thoughts swarmed, jumbled and incoherent, a puzzle missing pieces; Memories that should have led him from the past to the present moment were missing. Although confused and scared, his attention quickly shifted when he noticed he was not alone.

The bodies of two women laid limp in separate cages, one wall of their cage connected to his on each side of him.

"Hello! Hello! Who's there?" he yelled. His fingers slipped into the holes of the gate and curled around the metal to support his body as he staggered towards one of them. The red head rolled over, the short hem of her dress riding up on her thighs to reveal a gratuitous amount of leg as she saw him for the first time.

"Caitlin?" he said. Her name came out of his mouth as a hesitant question. She furrowed her eyebrows and examined her surroundings.

"Noah…what's going on?" she said. She stood up and limped towards him, only to trip about halfway there. She looked down and noticed her left leg had been shacked to the other end of the cage.

"What the hell? Did you do this? I'm _not_ amused," she snapped. She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"What? You think _I _did this?" he asked. "Unbelievable. Look, I have no idea where we are or how we got here…" He glanced around the cage for clues, an answer of some kind. He noticed the brunette in the other cage, and she drew his attention away from Caitlin.

"Hello? Are you okay?" he asked.

Noah felt an intense jolt of shock, like being on the receiving end of an electric eel's vengeful assault. The woman in the other cage was his wife.

"Noah…?" she asked, her voice filled with trepidation and innocence. She sat up and examined the dreary environment with wary eyes. She panned around the room, looking for an exit in wasted effort. She noticed her shackled leg and glanced up at Noah for an explanation.

"What's going on?" she whimpered. She curled up against the cage that fenced her in completely.

"I wish I knew. Oh Rachel, I can't tell you how much I wish I knew what the _hell_ is going on…" He put his hand against the fence that separated them. He hung his head in shame, never before feeling so helpless. When he looked up again, he saw a tape recorder hanging from a string in the middle of his cage. In his panic, he'd completely overlooked the obvious. He glanced over at his wife, desperate to obtain reassurance he did not receive. His fingers hovered over the recorder as he gathered the courage to proceed.

"Play the damn thing," Caitlin griped, her hands gripping the shackle as she tried to slip out of the chain. Noah shot her a dirty look. She shrugged her shoulders, the strap of her dress sliding down with the gesture.

Noah rolled his eyes, and with less hesitation than before, he grabbed the recorder. As a result, sparks flew from the shackles, generating a yelp of pain from both women.

His thumb pressed play.

"_Hello, Noah…and welcome_," the tape began, followed by a long hesitant pause that increased the already high tension in the room.

"_No,_" Noah's wife whispered, the word lost in her breathless gasp. Rachel's wide eyes examined the shackle with more attention as it dawned on her that she had woken up in a Jigsaw trap. The recorder, the greeting, her surrounding environment...it just fit. She had read about an instance like this in the papers. It had always seemed so distant though, as all tragic events in the news seem to uninvolved third parties. Rachel closed her eyes as she tried to remember the details of the article she'd read. It had been a front page story...

_**Jigsaw Killer Strikes Again **_

The journalist's latest obsession was about the Jigsaw case, more specifically criticizing the incompetence of the police who still had not disclosed any real leads to the public. At the time, Rachel thought the writer had been too harsh on them; but now that she was in a game herself, she agreed wholeheartedly with the critic; they should have already caught that bastard by now.

She stared at her husband clutching the recorder, the device that contained the information that she knew could save them, or could potentially cause the death of any one of them in the room. The dual-nature of it faintly crossed his mind as she continued to ponder what they were there for in the first place.

"_Your entire life, you have been selfish and apathetic to those around you, taking for granted what you should have cherished. __Tonight you must decide what is important, and act upon what you conscience tells you. In order to save, you must offer a sacrifice. Look around, and the solution will present itself...but be wary of your time. Time is precious. Be careful not to take too long, or you may lose all you care for, forever."_

"What the fuck does that mean?" Caitlin asked, still trying to squeeze her foot out of her constraints.

"I read an article about this guy before. He's called Jigsaw," Rachel said. "He tries to get people to appreciate their lives by putting them in dangerous situations."

"That's pretty fucking obvious," Caitlin snapped. She gave the chain one last yank, then shoved it away, realizing escape would not be so easy.

_Look around, and the solution will present itself…_

Noah did look. He looked at his lovely, innocent wife who didn't deserve to be imprisoned along with him for his sins, and he looked at the other woman, the one who had tempted him into that sin.

_Time is precious._

"Noah! Look! Over there!" Caitlin exclaimed. She jumped up and pointed towards the edge of her cage that was adjoined to his, a small note connected onto the cage next to a clear plastic tube. The tube connected to a clear jar.

Noah rushed over to it and opened the note.

"Make the ultimate sacrifice for that which you cherish...a sacrifice of blood."

Taped on the inside of the note was a rusty scalpel. His eyes grew wide, the dark pupils and irises seeming to shrink as the white of his eyes expanded.

"What does it say?" Caitlin asked. He read it out loud, his words as shaky as his trembling hands.

"Noah," his wife called. He hurried over to her, and saw a tube on the other side as well, connected to the adjoining fence between him and Rachel. Suddenly another bolt of electricity shot into her, through her. It was a much higher voltage than before. Her entire body convulsed as another current raged through her body.

"Hurry up," she said. "Come on, baby, hurry up, we're on a time limit here!"

"'_Baby_?'" Rachel exclaimed, her eyes shifting between Noah and Caitlin with the suspicion of a detective in an interrogation room.

"Yeah," Caitlin said, her hands on her hips again, her head bobbing as she took on a defensive stance. "What the hell is it to you?"

Rachel held up her left hand and fingered her wedding ring. She lowered her other fingers to emphasize the golden ring that glimmered despite the poor lighting in the room. Caitlin looked baffled before her eyes darted from Rachel's hand to Noah's, and she saw a ring on his finger that matched hers. Caitlin made the connection. Her mouth gaped open in response.

The finger Rachel choose to lift up above the others shifted from her ring finger to her middle, and she aimed it clearly at Caitlin.

"Real mature," Caitlin spat. "So what the hell, Noah? When were you planning on telling me about this? I knew you were still married, but you stopped wearing the ring, or so I thought…"

"This isn't the time!" he snapped.

"No, this is the perfect time! This is what he wants, this Jigsaw guy. He wants you to make a choice. To appreciate what you truly cherish. That's what he gets off on, right? "

"No, _you _want me to make a choice," he said, glaring at the loudmouthed woman who had chosen a very inconvenient time to start grating him.

"Regardless, you know what you have to do."

"Yeah. I do," he said. Noah strolled over to the tube on Rachel's side. He took a deep inhale and placed the blade against his wrist. He debated a vertical or horizontal slash. A vertical cut would definitely draw blood, but it could make him woozy, too weak to fight back against his kidnapper if it led to that...yet a horizontal slash might not do the job effectively. The tip of the blade dipped into his flesh. The dark crimson liquid quickly appeared, a round drop settling itself on his skin in a small dome. He pressed deeper, tearing at his body with the self-destructing force of someone seething with self-hatred… and a part of his courage came from just that. A masochistic desire to find atonement.

He began to shriek from the pain as he glided the blade down his wrist, impulsively making the decision to slice vertically. His cries intensified into screams of agony. He held his wrist over the tube, making sure as much blood as possible entered and didn't drip on the ground, as wasted as his life had been, but the spew of his blood was uncontrollable, and some of it sprayed on the floor and outside of the tube. Noah's eyes squinted as he endured the pain, and both women watched in horror. Blood covered his wedding ring, concealing it completely, while the act itself sealed the last ruminants of love between them, between husband and wife, forging a kind of bond that could never be attained in the outside world. He was bleeding... to save her life.

Excruciating seconds slipped past as smoothly as the blood slipped from his veins once the flow really got going. The jar filled, overflowing from the top in his desperate need to save her. Rachel's shackle clicked. She looked down and saw that she was free. She leapt up and ran towards the barrier between them.

"Noah!" she exclaimed.

"Rachel," he sighed, leaning against the gate for support.

"NOAH!" Caitlin screeched, tugging against the shackle in futility. "Help me!"

"Don't!" Rachel said. "You're already bleeding so badly...you'll die if you don't stop!"

"You bitch!" Caitlin yelled. Then she took a deep breath and changed her tune like a punished child trying to sweet talk her way into getting back into Daddy's good graces.

"Don't do this to me. I'm not a perfect person, but I_ am_ a person. I'm a human being. Please, have mercy," she said, tears emerging. No longer an act; She was truly terrified. Her shackle vibrated against her ankle, knocking her down on the ground from the sudden impact of pulsing electricity coursing through her body.

The shocks were now far longer, more intense, and with shorter intervals between them. By the end, Caitlin's face was streaked with tears. Unable to stand, she got on all fours in the manner of a repentant sinner and looked up to Noah like he was a God judging her and deciding the fate of her eternal soul.

"P-please. Please, Noah," she choked. "Oh G-God, _don't kill me! I'm a person! I'm a PERSON!"_

Noah sighed, hanging his head in shame and misery, avoiding the sight of Caitlin as another brutal attack ravaged her body. Her screams escalated, interrupted only by her gasps for air. She stretched her arm out towards him, her face possessing an indescribable vulnerability about her...the look that made firemen rush into a flaming building for survivors, that made officers go up against criminals in hostage situations, that made lifeguards dive into oceans to save the desperate drowning.

At last finding pity for her, he began walking towards Caitlin. He collapsed once, causing Rachel to emit a worried gasp. He got back up and limped towards the other end of the cage, towards Caitlin's tube.

"Th-thank you. Thank you," she sighed, looking at the ground, bracing herself for the next electrocution that was due any second. She could only hope it would be the last before she was free. Noah reopened the already gaping wound, expanding the cut even further and deeper. Caitlin's screams accompanied his own as the shock she anticipated arrived at last. Noah looked up at the jar.

_Roughly a fourth of the way there..._

Rachel shielded her face with both hands, turning away from the horrific scene. Her chest heaved up and down with increasing speed as she hyperventilated from the overwhelming panic.

_Halfway there..._

More blood missed the tube than actually entered as Noah's coordination waned from wooziness. The crimson fluid pooled around his feet, obscuring the tube completely, making it resemble a human vein, the very vein that Noah himself sliced into.

_Almost there...almost there..._

Yet it no longer mattered how close or how far he was. Caitlin's voice disappeared; her calls for help ceased.

"Noah! _Noah, STOP!_ She's gone! She's dead…"

Noah craned his neck towards Caitlin's cell. Rachel was right. The red haired woman had collapsed in her prison; her limbs sprawled out at awkward, painful looking angles. Painful for the living, anyway. Her eyes rolled back in her head, mocking him for the last time.

Noah sighed and closed his eyes, shedding away fresh tears. The fence between Rachel and Noah squeaked as it unlocked. Rachel shoved it open and ran to embrace Noah, kissing him passionately, oblivious of her clothes mopping up his blood. He reciprocated, ignoring the pain and blood as well.

"I love you!" she cried, all thoughts of his infidelity absent from her mind. Somehow the betrayal didn't matter anymore. Perhaps she'd feel rage later, but for now, she only felt love and admiration. "I love you, Noah."

"I love you, too," Noah mumbled into her hair. "Let's get out of here…"

"How?" she asked, adjusting slightly so she could look into his eyes.

"I don't know," he said. He shook the walls of the cage. One of them unbolted upon intense rattling.

"Come on," he said. She followed behind him, providing support as his leaned on her.

"Everything will be different now, Rachel. I understand…I know what's important now," he said.

"I know. Let's just focus on getting out of here," she said. Rachel whimpered. She grabbed his sleeve and pointed towards the door. Written in blood, or something that looked remarkably like it, was the word _"Sacrifice,"_ that they had both come to associate with both love and death, and right beside it, another plastic tube leading to a jar that no doubt provided the way to their freedom. Rachel wrapped her arms around Noah's waist, shielding her eyes from the sight of it.

"It'll be okay, Rachel."

"No, it won't! I have to…I have to help you…" she said. Noah turned around and shook his head.

"No. It's not an option."

"Yes, it is!" she insisted, letting go of him and standing her ground. "You've already lost so much blood…Noah, you can't do this on your own."

He pulled the scalpel out of his back pocket. He had intended to use it as a weapon in case he came face-to-face with his abductor, but the coward didn't dare confront him. Why should he? He may not be able to compete with Noah's muscle mass, but he didn't need to when he had electric chains, massive cages, bloodthirsty jars with tubes anxiously awaiting him…awaiting his _sacrifice_…

"_Noah, don't_!" she shrieked, curling her hands into small, tight fists. He ripped into his wrist yet again, twisting the knife in circles to bring forth a steady flow. The gash had now expanded from the end of his palm to nearly his elbow.

Rachel clutched her stomach and shrieked, a nauseous sensation overwhelming her. She looked around the room, for anything that could help, some miraculous alternate exit, and for the first time, she noticed a camera. She glared at the blinking light.

"You motherfucker!" she yelled in revulsion, and then with the abrupt mood swing of a manic depressive, she cried out. "Why are you doing this to us? _STOP! Please, STOP THIS! Have mercy!"_

"He won't stop…not until…" Noah said, losing his words in his pain. She burst into a new fit of tears.

"_N-Nooo!"_

Noah's unsteady legs finally gave out.

"Rachel…I need your help after all."

She turned to Noah and attempted to grab the scalpel from him. He jerked it away, out of her reach.

"I need you to hold me up…"

"_No!" _she shouted, reaching for the scalpel again.

"Rachel. Please. I can't do this without you."

She shook her head, her lip pouting and trembling, her hands shaking with both rage and absolute horror. But the pleading in his voice made her oblige what could probably be his last request.

He scraped his wrist against the edge of the tube, attempting to draw even more blood out as Rachel struggled to lift him up high enough to reach the pipe. The scalpel made an awful screeching noise as it scraped against bone, like an artist carving into a sculpture. He shrieked, his head rolled back and he howled a scream so helplessly bloodcurdling, it gave Rachel no other choice. She stole the blade from the dying man, easy now that he could barely control the motor function of his hands.

"No, Rachel, no…don't…" he gasped, clutching his wrist, using his other hand like a tourniquet to stop the bleeding, if only so he didn't waste the precious blood that he needed to save his wife.

She placed the red and shiny scalpel on her wrists and watched as her own blood poured out of her body, merging with her husband's as it slid down the clear tube. Noah's clean hand grabbed her leg, clinching her ankle as he tried to pull her away. Even as he laid on the ground bleeding to death, he was still trying to save her from the same fate.

"Rachel! Stop! _Stop!_ _STOP…" _he broke into desperate sobs, grabbing her with both hands now, blood seeping into the cracks of the floor and smearing over her calves. Rachel watched the beaker fill higher.

"It's almost full, Noah…almost…" she panted. She collapsed onto Noah. Her tiny body felt like nearly nothing upon impact, mere packaging Styrofoam sprinkled around him. He wrapped his shirt around her arm, but he knew that she wasn't going to stop bleeding though; she needed to be in a hospital _right away_ to even stand a chance…they both did.

"Noah," she whimpered, curling up against him, the blood surrounding them on all sides. They glanced at the jar. Their blurry vision made it impossible to detect how full the jar really was. How close were they to freedom? Was it even worth trying to stand up again? Not that either them possessed the strength…

"I'm so sorry, Noah." she cried.

"I…l-love you," he cried, his voice breaking under the strain of his own reemerging tears. "I'm sorry…it took too long for me to figure it out. I'm sorry…I waited too long…"

"I love…and forgive you," she said, smiling. He returned to gesture, albeit with a bittersweet reciprocation. She looked beautiful despite all of the terror around them, and perhaps made even more so by the sharp contrast. Noah didn't want to avert his eyes from her for a single one of his final moments. They laid beside each other on the floor while their bodies caught up to what their minds had already accepted. That this was their last goodbye, their final exchange of "I love you". His blood-spattered hand held onto hers, the matching gaping wounds on their wrists mirrored each other, a testament to their love and their willingness to sacrifice for one another. She nestled her head into the crevice of his neck, and they lived out their last remaining minutes as husband and wife, as connected and joined as two souls can be, while they waited calmly for death to come and claim them as his own.

* * *

Amanda and Mark's eyes both glossed with tears as they watched the game unfold from the safety and objectivity of the monitoring room. At some point during the test, Amanda's hand clasped Mark's, and like the two test subjects on the screen that desperately clung to each other in their last moments, neither of them could let go. Like eyewitnesses to a terrible accident, they were bonded together by the horror they had seen. Noah and Rachel's bodies remained completely immobile for several minutes, their chests no longer rising with the effort of breathing. They had passed together, peacefully, like a couple several decades older than them might be expected to do in their sleep.

"They just gave up," she whispered. Mark shifted his attention from the monitor to Amanda. Her let go of his hand as her arms crossed over her chest in a subconscious desire for protection, and her body trembled.

"They were _dying_, Amanda," he said. Lame, yet it was the best he could offer as he overcame his own sorrow that was burrowing deep inside of him. It was a pitiful sight. For a brief, blissful moment, he too had shared Amanda's sentiment and despite his better judgment, had hoped they might make it out alive.

"I know, but… I don't think that's why they stopped fighting. I think they stopped because they both knew the other one wasn't going to make it, and they didn't want to go on…well, they didn't want to go on without each other," she said at last. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her eyes clouded and moist, like a window misted from rain. Despite the vacant expression on Amanda's face, he knew exactly what she was feeling because he felt it as well. It was a need for connection.

"They waited too long…_he_ waited too long, to show how much he loved her…" Mark said, thinking about much more than just Noah and Rachel now. "Amanda...let's not make that mistake."

"Mark," she said, her tone threatening. She saw desperation in his eyes, a pitiful look she hated to see on Mark's usually attractive features. She drew closer to him, contemplated the consequences of following her impulses, and then turned away completely as she stormed out of the room.

"I need to think," she explained, already halfway out the door.

"Take your time!" he snapped. He meant to sound sincere, but his emotions interfered, and he didn't come across that way. Not that it mattered. She had chosen a very inconvenient time to shut him out again.

_No pressure, Amanda._

They both thought rather sarcastically. Mark knew before she even made the decision herself what she was going to do. He may not have been as good as John at anticipating the human mind, but he thought he was beginning to get inside Amanda's a little more. Understanding her was a long and difficult process, requiring much effort and compassion and regrettably, what it required above all else...patience.

But it was a process he hoped would be worth it in the end.

Someday...


	26. Surrender

**Rating: R for sexual content!**

**Timeline: One Week Later**

**Chapter 25**

**Surrender**

"**Little angel go away, come again some other day  
****The devil has my ear today, I'll never hear a word you say  
****He promised I would find a little solace and some peace of mind  
****Whatever, just as long as I don't feel so  
****Desperate and ravenous,  
****so weak and powerless  
****Over you."**

**-A Perfect Circle, **_**Weak and Powerless**_

She promised John that she'd been reborn, a total metamorphosis into a new being, caterpillar to butterfly, yet now she didn't want to claim either entity. She just wanted to revert back into that transition state inbetween, safe and protected inside a cocoon, and full of potential for her life. No drug addiction nor debts to John, just total freedom from the substance that had taken over her life and from the man that had saved her from herself.

It had been nearly a week since Noah's test, since Amanda had stormed away from Mark rather than run into his arms like she really desired to.

_How did Noah fail? He learned...and he changed. I could just feel it. There was love there, between husband and wife, at the end of the game. Doesn't that count for something?_

_Follow your heart. Detach emotionally. So which is it, John? What 's right?_

Then the most terrifying and confusing thought of all came to her.

_What if John didn't know?_

She couldn't bring herself to even admit the possibility existed, much less actually ask him. Not that she could anyway. The past few days, John had been almost impossible to reach. She'd look all over for him, a combination of concern and merely having nothing else to do, and then she'd find a locked door that served as both a barrier and an invisible "Do Not Disturb" sign in one. She'd shake her head and walk away, disappointed and unbearably bored out of her mind.

Since John had practically abandoned her the last few days without explanation or instructions, she had taken on a new project to distract herself from boredom that always lead to her thinking about Mark and the entire complicated situation surrounding him. To evade thoughts of him, she had taken John's advice to heart, and attempted to replicate one of his more interesting traps: "The Shotgun Collar".

_Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery..._

"Damn it," Amanda groaned. "Where is that fucking screwdriver?"

She heard the entry door swing open. She didn't even have to look to know that it was Mark-no one swung the door open with that much unnecessary force except for him-but she couldn't resist glancing over her shoulder anyway. There he stood, in his work clothes and jacket, the blue shirt he'd selected emphasising his eyes and making them all the more noticeable so that Amanda's attention lingered several moments longer than usual on his face, the screwdriver she sought seconds ago totally absent from her mind.

"Amanda," he said in a tone that could mean anything. More pleading? Another anti-John rant? Or for once simply a welcoming greeting?

"We need to talk."

Of course. It could never just be simple.

"Well," she replied, staring at the trap she held in both hands. She tilted it, looked underneath the original and tried to map out in her head what it was she was supposed to be copying. "I'm a little preoccupied."

"You've been avoiding me," he accused.

"So?" she snapped. The trap landed on the desk with a loud _clink_. The gleaming trap was so lightweight, despite all the metal material. Hers would no doubt fall with a thud, and probably shatter upon impact, just to illustrate how much she wasn't...

_("You're not Jigsaw, bitch!") _

...as good as John.

"I'm just concerned. It's been a week since we've had a conversation lasting longer than five minutes."

"Been busy," she said, her eyes scanning her surroundings for the screwdriver she needed. "Ugh, it has to be around here somewhere...damn it, damn it, _damn it_!"

In a split-second she snapped, tossing the papers and other materials off the desk, including her cheap imitation of John's trap. It didn't quite shatter, but somehow it looked even more pathetic than before when she'd been working on it. She sighed and slumped in her chair.

"I know it's not exactly uncommon for you to throw things when you're having a temper tantrum," he said, only half joking, "...but I know that's not a normal reaction to misplacing a screwdriver, even for you."

"I'm just feeling...restless. I'm sick of being here."

"Oh?" Mark said, unable to suppress surprise, and joy, in her confession.

"Don't get your hopes up. I'm not _that _sick of being here. I just mean I'm tired of being in this place, of being around all these...half finished projects. It keeps making me think..."

_Of John, and how he's not getting better, not ever going to get better, and of how a lot of these half-finished projects that John is working on will forever be that once he's gone. _

"You've got a bad case of cabin fever," he said with the confidence of a doctor dispensing a diagnosis. "You need to get out."

"You mean like...outside?" she said it like it was a foreign concept. The baffled expression on her face almost made him smile, if it hadn't been so pathetic that the mere thought of social interaction with anyone else but him and John had become such a weird concept to her.

"I walk around outside sometimes," she said.

"But you never really leave the area. I'm talking about a change of surroundings. You need it. For your sanity."

"Oh, please. _Spare me_. What do you...what do either of us know about sanity?" she muttered.

"I know that you can't afford to lose any more of it," he said with a smile. "Besides...the wiring in this..."

He lifted up Amanda's copycat trap.

"It's _all wrong_."

She leaned her forehead against the side of the table and groaned into the flat surface.

"Relax. I'll help you when we get back."

"Get back? From where?" she said, confused but clearly not entirely opposed to the idea.

"Just a little change of scenery," he said. "C'mon."

She followed him with little reluctance to his car. Everything about what she was doing felt wrong, and it was both frightening and exhilarating at the same time. She was doing something that John had not given her permission to do. Granted, he hadn't forbidden her from leaving. He never really forbid her from anything, but somehow she hadn't felt so guilty in a long time. Her heart pounded in her chest, wondering if today John would choose to come out of his hibernation and find that she was gone.

Mark opened the door to the passenger side.

"So where are we going?" she said as she slid into the seat, although she honestly didn't care about the destination. The mere thought of leaving was the excitement.

"No idea," he said.

"Comforting," she replied, but her sarcasm was softened with a smile.

"Any place you're always wanted to go?" he asked.

"Las Vegas," she said. "City of sin...and fun."

"Yeah, because temptation is all we need," he said. Amanda gave him a sneaky sideways glance, and he flushed slightly. He was referring to drugs and alcohol, their two vices, but he knew she thought he was referring to sex. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"Um...why don't we try something more local?" she suggested. "I have an idea..."

* * *

After stopping somewhere to eat, and somewhere else for dessert, making a stop at Mark's place before going back to 'homebase' as she liked to call the warehouse that she had come to think of as her home, was actually all Amanda's idea. She'd had a lot of fun being out and wanted to delay returning a little longer. He didn't protest because he accepted any excuse to keep her away from John.

When they entered Mark's apartment complex, Amanda glanced around in fascination. It wasn't much better than her previous apartment, but the mere sight of other people, people she wasn't going to have to drug and kidnap, just going about their day-to-day lives interested her.

He led her to the staircase.

"Why don't we just take the elevator?" she asked, pointing towards it.

Mark glanced in that direction, then instinctively closed his eyes and frowned. He took a deep breath, gave the elevators a murderous stare, and then smiled at Amanda and said, "I just prefer the stairs."

Amanda shrugged and followed him. Several flights up, she began to feel nearly out of breath.

"You take the stairs _everyday_?" she asked, the last word coming out in a huff.

"Everyday," he said. At last, they reached the right floor, and he let her into his apartment.

Mark's apartment was dimly lit, but not nearly as barren as her own had been. Unlike her previous residence, he actually had furniture, a television, and she soon discovered as she snooped through his kitchen, a pantry full of food.

"By all means, help yourself to anything in the kitchen," he said with a smile after she'd already started rummaging through his cabinets.

"You cook?" she said, not even trying to hide her amused disbelief. There were things in there that actually didn't have step-by-step directions printed on the package.

"Yeah. Sometimes," he said. His response interested her. She never would have imagined Mark possessing any kind of culinary skills, and if he could cook things that didn't have the word "Instant" on the package, he was already levels ahead of her in that department.

She decided to get a drink, but then she paused, her hand hovering over the handle.

"Who's this?" she asked, her eyes being led to a lone picture on Mark's refrigerator. A beautiful, beaming smile greeted anyone looking for a snack, meal or simply a drink. With straight white teeth and adorable dimples on her cheeks, she could have been a model in a dental advertisement.

"My sister," Mark said quietly. "Angelina."

"Oh," Amanda said. Pity washed over her. She looked over at Hoffman, who was leaning over the kitchen bar, a sad smile on his face contrasting with his dead sister's joyful one.

"She was beautiful," Amanda said, in an effort to break the pending awkward silence. "She looks...happy."

"She was happy. Then, anyway," Mark said, removing himself from the other end of the bar and walking into the living room. Amanda could still see him from her position in the kitchen; she could see he was going to another place in his mind. He was with her, but only physically. She wanted to reach out to him, to bring him out of that place. But was he remembering good times or bad? Was this other place a torment or a haven? Judging by the expression on his face, the answer must have been a complicated one.

Amanda walked into the living room, her drink forgotten, and for the first time noticed the book-less bookcase. It had been converted into a shrine for his sister. Each shelf contained framed photographs, and a few had other objects that must have meant something to her or Mark at one time: childlike drawings, an award of some kind, a necklace draped around one of her pictures.

She put a hand on Mark's shoulder and bit her lip. The display before them was a sweet and beautiful, in a tragic sort of way. She felt immense sorrow, and also a tinge of jealousy for this woman she'd never met. Amanda couldn't think of anyone who would do something like this for her after she was gone. How lucky this girl was to have family who cared for her, even now, years after she had passed.

"_She was happy. Then, anyway."_

_So what changed, Mark?_

* * *

"The Precinct called. Said you aren't pressing charges after all. I thought we agreed, Angelina? I know what he did to you wasn't an accident. I saw the bruises, you told me yourself what happened. Please tell me you're leaving him tonight," Mark said, feeling exhausted in every sense of the word, and irritated by the pending hangover he knew awaited him the next morning.

"Mark, I can't leave him," she confessed. In her anxiety, her finger wrapped around the cord of the phone, getting trapped in the spiral curls.

"Angelina... he's dangerous. You know that," Mark said. "Isn't that a good enough reason to leave?"

"I need him. I need someone else to care about...besides you," she said. Dangerous territory she was stepping in, but she couldn't shy away from the truth.

"When did I stop being enough?" he asked, sounding absolutely pitiful. "Is it all the overtime I've been putting in at work lately? Do you feel like I'm not there for you anymore?"

Angelina sighed and put the back of her hand to her temple, the cord hovering in front of her.

"Oh Mark...it's not anything you've done. It's just that, we can't only care about each other forever. It's not healthy. We need other people."

"I know that but...please, I beg you, Angelina, if not for yourself than for me, please, _please _let him go."

"I can't," she said, starting to tear up. Not the last thing he wanted to hear from his sister, and definitely not the tone he wanted to hear it in. "He needs me too much. He told me that I make his life better. Bearable. And we love each other-"

"He doesn't love you, Angelina. He's a sociopath who's only capable of loving himself. He doesn't even understand what love means. But I do. I love you, Angelina. You're all I have," Mark said suddenly, realizing it for the first time as he spoke it. "My career is...it's nothing to me unless you're with me to share my success, my happiness. I'll give it up for you. I'll quit, if that's what it takes, if that's what it takes for me to protect you from this _fucking_ _bastard_-"

_Click. _

Silence on the other end of his phone invaded the apartment and spread, eradicating all noise surrounding him. Until he shattered the quiet with a steady stream of curse words directed at Seth. He threw his phone across the room and downed another drink. He would drive over there tomorrow when he sobered up, and force Angelina to come home with him, to leave Seth for good. He would get her out of the vicious cycle of abuse if she couldn't do it for herself. If Seth tried to stop him, he'd beat the shit out of him. Maybe he'd even get Eric to help.

But that never happened.

It never happened because he waited just one night too long.

* * *

"Mark, what are you thinking about?" Amanda asked, turning his face to the side and using her body to block his view from the bookcase. Not that he needed to see it. He'd spent so much time staring at it in the past that it was permanently imprinted in his mind.

"The man who killed her was her boyfriend. There were signs of abuse...all the signs...they were right there, in front me...and I...I could've done a better job protecting her," Mark said, shaking his head. Amanda couldn't protest because she hadn't been there, but based on own experiences of being the subject of Mark's over protectiveness, she had a gut feeling he'd done whatever he could to save her, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't be her savior. The fact that he'd still failed despite everything just skewed the truth in his mind, made him feel the burden of blame because even though he'd tried, the bottom line was he did not succeed. And the bottom line is all a guilty mind can remember.

"I think you did all you could. No matter what you do, in the end, people make their own decisions. You couldn't control her...people have to help themselves," she said. Realizing how much she sounded like John made her wince. Sounding like him was not her intention. That was probably not something Mark wanted to hear.

"Maybe you're right," Mark said. "It's hard to feel that way, to feel like I did everything I could, because she's still gone."

"And you still miss her," Amanda said, tilting her head to the side and catching Mark's eyes.

"Of course I do," he said. "All the time. She was my family."

Amanda absentmindedly touched one of the pictures on the shelves.

"I think John is the closest I've ever felt to having family," Amanda confessed, staring at the lovely girl in the frame.

"And what about me?" Mark asked.

"You know that's different," she said in a low voice. She turned to face Mark, and in doing so, accidentally knocked over one the frames on the shelf. It crashed to the floor with a piercing clatter.

"_Fuck_!" she shrieked, jolting backwards. Mark looked down and saw broken pieces of the frame dispersed all over the floor. Then he noticed a small trail of blood leading up to Amanda.

"Are you okay?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Yeah...no. Maybe," she said, clutching her leg.

"Should our next trip be the ER?" he inquired sharply.

"No!" she shot back. "It's not that bad!"

"Come here. Let me clean it up anyway," he said. She used him for support as she hobbled her way into Mark's bathroom, so small it could send a claustrophobic into a panic attack. The edge of the tub was too narrow to sit on, so she got all the way in, accepting the fact she might get damp...or totally soaked, by the time it was over.

Mark inserted the plug into the drain and twisted the knob to start the flow of water, overlooking the fact that he'd accidentally left the shower on. Water sprayed out all over her from head to toe.

"Fuck!" Amanda screeched, kicking the wall in front of her in instinct with her uninjured leg.

"Sorry..."

He pushed down on the small knob on the nozzle to turn the shower off and the bath on. He adjusted the water temperature as he tried to repress a laugh. One quick glance at Amanda told him that could be dangerous.

"Shit, that was cold!" Amanda said. Her shoulders vibrated as she shivered.

"Apparently," Mark muttered under his breath as he noticed her nipples become obtrusive beneath her top, leaving little to the imagination. His attention turned toward her leg in his need of immediate distraction. He tried to roll her jeans up to gain access to the wound, but the material was so tight that he could only lift it a couple inches.

"Damn, you're jeans are tight."

"They're skinny jeans," she explained, cocking an eyebrow. "They're supposed to be."

"Well, it's inconvenient," he scolded, giving it one last tug. Still no slack, and the blood puddle on the denim material continued to expand. He leaned back for a moment, contemplated the situation, and reached for the button to Amanda's stubborn jeans.

"Whoa!" she yelped. She grabbed his hand with her own and used the other to clutch his arm. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

In another situation, Mark would have chuckled at her over-exaggerated reaction, but he was too concerned about her welfare to find humor in anything. Her hindering him came off as aggravating instead of cute, and he snapped at her.

"Unless you want me to take you to the ER, I'm going to have to do this. Please," he added at the end, although the tone of that 'please' was a cleverly concealed criticism.

Amanda looked at him skeptically, still holding him in his place.

"Fine," she said, lifting her hands up in surrender. He unbuttoned her jeans and started yanking them down. With the way Mark was staring at her, somehow the water seemed even hotter than before. Boiling hot, practically steaming, in fact...or was it just _her_ that was getting hotter?

"Could you possibly stare any _more_?" she said. She crossed her arms across her breasts, the only act of modesty she could muster under the circumstances, hiding her nipples that were becoming quite hard and due to the water, quite visible as well.

"I'm just trying to examine the wound. Grow up," he said, only-half lying. He really was examining the wound...among other things.

"Oh please, you totally just gave my crotch a glance over. A very long one, I might add."

"Well, for fuck's sake, you're wearing bright red underwear, it's...eye catching," he said, removing her jeans completely as he added the last part. He discarded the bloody clothes in the corner of his tiny bathroom and finally got a good view of the injury. Amanda wasn't lying- it really wasn't that bad. It was a long cut, yes, but it wasn't deep, and it looked like it had finished bleeding. He cupped one of his hands and drizzled warm water over the wound to wash away the blood and get a better view of the situation.

"I told you it wasn't that..._bad_," Amanda said, her last word coming out as a breathless whimper. Mark had to agree with her. After he was satisfied that her wound wasn't severe, he turned the water off and turned to look at her.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he said. His eyes did a doubt take of Amanda's expression. She was squirming uncomfortably and biting her bottom lip.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He was confused by her reaction, until he noticed where his other hand had inadvertently traveled while his mind was otherwise preoccupied. While his right hand splashed water on her leg, his left hand rested on her inner thigh. Unknown even to him, but very well noticed by Amanda, was the way his hand had gently caressed her inner thigh. How very like Mark -one part of him trying to earnestly be helpful while the other side sought was he really wanted, rules and manners be damned.

He removed his hand and looked up at her to apologize, but was distracted by the vision and sudden realization that Amanda was in his apartment, in his bathtub half naked, her clothes totally saturated in water, and from what he could tell by her expression and the way her legs were suddenly spread as far as the narrow bath would allow, totally wanting him. Mark's apology got lost somewhere in his mind, and before he could relocate it, or even remember how to speak at all, Amanda acted on her impulses.

Nearly half the water in the tub poured out as she reached for him. She managed to pull his upper half on top of her, and his right leg floundered inside of the bathtub, caught between Amanda's legs, as he tried to regain his balance. She assaulted his mouth with ravenous desire, and he responded the only way he possibly could, with eager reciprocation. One of his hands steadied himself while the other squeezed her breast, nipples already erect under her wet top. He broke off the kiss to suck one of the swelling nubs, swallowing the warm water contained in the flimsy material of her shirt. Amanda groaned, lifting up her hips to grind his. He moaned into her breast, the suddenness of the pleasure and the heat emitting from the bathwater and from their bodies surged through him and made him hard.

"_Ohhh_, Mark…" she gasped, pressing his face to her chest and curling her fingers in his hair. That simple reaction provided all the encouragement necessary for him to continue. He savored the sound of her calling out to him, the taste of Amanda-tainted water, and the feel of her wet nipple in his mouth. He couldn't stop himself until he was nearly choking on water and breast.

"Amanda," he panted, pulling himself away at last.

She stared at him with parted lips.

"What, Mark?" she said, hardly comprehending her own name coming from his lips. Her mind wasn't working right. She had parts of her throbbing louder than his voice in tempo with her racing heart.

"I want you. I want you..._so much_," he said, the aching in his erection forcing that last phrase out of his mouth with great emphasis. "But no more lies about this being the last time. Do you understand?"

He was saying it for her, saying what she'd been unable to since the night they gave in to each other. All she had to do was agree. Hell, she didn't even have to say anything. All she needed to do was nod her head, give him consent. All she had to do was shut her damn mouth and just bob her head up and down...

"Mark, maybe we shouldn't..." she said. Mark nodded his head as though he expected that, albeit begrudgingly. He pulled himself out of the tub, and moved his damp hair out of his face.

"I'm sorry," she said, still panting, her body still rebelling against her words. She adjusted herself in the tub. Before she could finished speaking, Mark restrained her, moved her panties to the side to allow access for his fingers, and plunged two of them inside of her.

"_Mark_!" she screamed, flailing her legs and slipping against the lubricated surface. She wrapped her arms around him to prevent herself from falling, and cursed profusely in both anger and arousal.

"_What the fuck_...do you think you're doing?" she snapped, not resisting but nonetheless seething.

"Proving a point," he said rather calmly. He continue pumping his fingers in and out, using the fact that Amanda was still trying to get steady as the perfect opportunity to make this point.

"Which is?" she hissed. Her muscles were contracting around his fingers against her will. She tried to tell her body to stop enjoying it so damn much.

_Stop giving him the satisfaction of seeing how he's getting you off, _she thought. _He's not even that good!_

Her body called her out as the liar she was. She writhed against his hand and did practically everything she could to get him in deeper besides grab his hand and jam his fingers into her. Soon she didn't give a fuck what Mark's point was. All she wanted was more of him inside of her.

"The point is that you want me," he said, still remaining that placid, penetrating expression. He wasn't going to stop, or go far enough to relieve her, until he got a confession out of her.

"Okay! I want you!" she groaned, frustration and arousal coming closer and closer together. Her thighs squeezed together, and her hips jolted upwards, a subconscious effort to pull him further in.

"Yeah, I'd say that's pretty obvious now," he said. The sudden desire to wipe that smirk off his face overwhelmed her. She just wasn't sure if she wanted to do it by slapping him or fucking him so hard he couldn't manage any expression except a helpless gasp. Or maybe she wanted to do both.

"That's not even the issue!" she reminded him. Of course he knew that, but that didn't mean it wasn't a subject worth bringing to her attention again.

"Amanda, you want me, and I clearly want you," he said. Her eyes looked him up and down.

"Clearly," she smirked, brazenly grabbing his crotch and squeezing, stealing some of his smug satisfaction. He flinched, mostly from surprise.

"And _that _is the only important issue," he sighed, sliding his fingers out of her. They both felt a twinge of regret as he pulled away from her.

"You already know," she said. "Why we shouldn't...but..." she said, looking away from him, trying to evade eye contact in vain. She couldn't avoid his gaze for more than a few seconds.

"Stop looking at me like that!" she said. "That's cheating!"

"_Cheating_?" Mark said, unable to resist the return of his complacent expression.

"Yes! I can't say 'no' when you look at me like...like..._that_," she said, pointing as if illustrating an example.

"Well, unfortunately I can't see how I'm looking at you, plus I really don't care if it's cheating. If it helps me get through to you. All's fair in..." he said, stupidly leading himself into an awkward pause.

"Lust and war?" Amanda said, attempting to finish for him. Neither of them were ready to say the real expression out loud. The other four letter L word. Not even close, even if they were getting _closer _to that point.

"Yeah, something like that," he said. He stood up, enjoyed the view of a drenching wet Amanda once more, before opening his cabinet to retrieve a towel. He gave it to her, and she stood up to dry herself off.

"I'll stop 'cheating' if you really want me to. But I don't think you do," he said. "Amanda, this isn't just about lust, and you know it. If it was, I would have already dropped the subject by now."

The pretense of being preoccupied with drying herself was convenient as she tried to think of something to say.

"I know you're concerned with what John thinks, but eventually, that's not going to stop you. John, his rules, whatever hold he has over you...it's not enough. It's not going to keep you from going for what you want, Amanda. Nothing can stop you from getting what you want. I remember not too long ago, the night we met, you didn't mind breaking a few rules...what was it you said to me..." he said, giving her a teasing smile. He hesitated as though trying to remember, even though they both knew what he was referring to, what she had told him many months ago, in another life.

He leaned down and whispered into her ear.

"Didn't you say something along the lines of..._'Some rules are meant to be broken_'?"

She shivered.

"Yes. I might have said something like that," she said, closing her eyes and going back to that night. Unlike most of her memories of her previous life, that night returned easily to her; It was the only part of her past she wasn't quite ready to let go of.

"Do you still believe it?" he murmured. As his forehead gently pressed up against her own, he closed his eyes and remembered that night as well.

She didn't answer him right away with words. They seemed beyond them at the moment, and Mark was grateful, for words only seemed to complicate what seemed to him to be a rather simple issue. When it came to Amanda, silence was his strong point. He could lure her to him better with a gaze or with the right touch, rather than with words that always seemed to further hinder him. He sensed her impending consent moments before she could verbalize it, but he waited patiently for an answer anyway.

"Yes, Mark. I still believe that sometimes someone is worth breaking all the rules for," she said, and proved that conviction with a kiss. It began sweet and tentative, and then quickly made a fast transition into something passionate and erotic, like a small campfire turning into a conflagration without warning. Mark yanked her wet panties down her legs. Once they slid past her thighs he released them, and they landed with a small _thud _on the tile. He pulled the rest of her clothes off with the same urgency, and soon he had a completely wet and naked Amanda pressing herself against him, completely willing and no longer denying her desire. For a moment he was in disbelief, but his arousal brought him back into the reality of the situation fairly quickly.

"Perhaps you should dry off a little more?" Mark teased, grabbing the towel Amanda had abandoned, and patted her legs up and down.

"What? Is that really necessary?" she said. In her excitement, she was oblivious to Mark's true intention. Not that mattered because he soon brought to her attention what his true motivation was for taking a southward detour, and after his mouth began sucking on the sensitive spot between her thighs, any potential complaints immediately fled her mind. All concentration was redirected on forcing her legs to remain steady. It became an especially difficult process when he used his fingers to stroke small circles in her flesh, beginning at her inner thigh and trailing upwards until he was rotating his fingers inside of her, her fluids drenching him and providing more than adequate lubrication for him to slip inside of her...whenever he was ready to end the teasing.

She called out to him, panting between each word.

"Oh...fuck..._yes_..._Mark!_"

She could feel him swallow; the small protuberance of his throat bobbed against her thigh. The suction sensation intensified as her smell and taste made him crave her more and thus suck her with more effort, which in turn made her even more aroused. Soon his saliva and her own wetness dripped off of his face, sliding down his chin and her thighs, and he felt the return of a sensation he'd experienced minutes ago when Amanda pressed his face against her breast covered in soaking wet cloth- like he was literally drowning in her. It wasn't so hard to imagine. She tasted so good, so irresistible...and if he did drown in her, what a way to go...

"_Oh, fuck_!" she groaned, grinding her hips to his face. She grabbed the doorknob behind her in an effort to remain upright as her toes curled in pleasure.

"Mark...I'm so close...so close..._ohhhhh!" _she moaned as she felt herself succumbing to the heated pleasure that had been swelling inside of her, waiting for release. Her head tilted upwards as she thrust her hips against his face. He grabbed her thighs and held her in place, sucking her even harder, gnawing on her soft flesh, and savoring every word, and eventually, every animalistic sound that came from her after words because too difficult to form. Finally the blissful sensation faded, and Mark kept swallowing her, unaware or unconcerned that she had already come. She fisted his hair and yanked him away, pulling him up to bring him face-to-face with her. His chin was drenched in their bodily fluids. Amanda thought it wasn't a bad look for him, at least not so long as his intense, arousing stare accompanied it, but he swiped it away with his sleeve.

"Damn, Mark," she said, still regaining her senses and leaning against the door for support. "Can't even wait to get to the fucking bedroom before you go down on me...where you ever planning on stopping?"

"Yes...at some point...but there's something about you that makes that very hard to do," he said, slightly panting. Even after he let her go, her scent still lingered in his mind, invading his senses. He grabbed her under her thighs and lifted her, spreading her legs, effectively forcing her to straddle him. She groaned; the feeling of his waist against the overly sensitive throbbing between her legs was both uncomfortable and stimulating at the same time. He redirected her attention to the sweet scent of her arousal as he plunged his tongue into her mouth. It was such an effective distraction that she didn't even realize they had left the bathroom until her back pressed against the mattress in his bedroom. He leaned down and kissed her so deeply that she had to literally push him away for air.

"_Fuck!_," she moaned, her head tilting to the side. Strands of her dark hair sprawled on the bed, like a halo of shadow.

"You sure do like that word," he muttered as he removed his clothes. She would have helped- she would have loved to strip him in a taunting, playful manner, piece by piece- but having just had an orgasm and been kissed to the point of serious air deprivation, she could hardly even breathe. By the time she caught her breath and looked back up at Mark, he was already nude and prepared for her, his erection covered with a condom, his eyes glazed with complete lust. She reached for him and mounted her body above his.

As much as he loved the idea of Amanda on top, (the view of those perfect breasts above him, bouncing in time with their thrusts, had been the object of more than one of Mark Hoffman's fantasies), but he loved seeing her fight back even more. They wrestled back and forth until he was on top of her, pinning her arms together and holding her in place beneath him. He shoved himself inside her, and she moaned, writhing against him and kicking simultaneously.

"_Yes!_" she yelled, figuring she'd give 'fuck' a momentary break and expand her vocabulary a little.

They carried on like that, fighting back and forth, tumbling on his bed and struggling to come out on top. He'd penetrate her, sliding in and out of her with increasing speed until he was certain one of them was close to losing it, then he'd let her go and watch her try to dominate him once more. It was amusing to watch her fail each time, to see the way she fought like hell to get on top, and then give into defeat so easily as soon as he entered her again.

"Damn it, Mark!" she protested as soon as he slipped out of her and released her wrists. If she was smart and thinking logically, she's just lay there, surrender completely, and wait for him to give in to his desires like he was bound to do eventually, but she was enraptured in an exhilarating combination of adrenaline and hormones, and the game was just as amusing to her as it was to him. Every time he held her down, he formed a self-satisfied grin that she both adored and despised. She liked knowing how much pleasure she was giving him to be submissive, but if he thought she was actually making a real effort to win, he was in for a surprise when she finally decided she'd had enough...

"Okay, you really want to be on top this time?" he murmured in her ear. She couldn't see his face but she could sense the teasing in his voice and the satisfaction he got from it.

"I _will_ be on top this time!" she spat. She wrestled him till she was, her sudden use of real strength taking him by surprise and allowing her to finally get the advantage. She mounted him and held him in place as she impaled herself on top of him, clinching her inner muscles tightly. He shoved his hips upward, a knee jerk reaction that sent a hot wave of spasms through them both. With his physical strength, he could have easily knocked her off if he hadn't been holding her steady. He thought of forcing her to rollover and finishing on top, but the view was too good to pass up, much better than he'd imagined, and he could sense they were both close to that euphoric moment they longed for. He didn't want to prolong it anymore. The desire for gratification had become too consuming.

She rode him in a fast, steady rhythm, longing to reach that blissful release she knew was almost within grasp. The sound of Mark panting and groaning beneath her encouraged her to pick up the pace and thrust harder. She acquiesced to his wordless command.

He grabbed her sides to hold her up as she came, the sensation beginning at her core and spreading through her limbs, all the way down to her toes that dug into the sheets in response. Mark came with her, pounding his hips upwards as his nails buried into her sides, provoking a vehement increase in the volume of her screams. It also brought back the return of her favorite bedroom word, 'fuck' to be used in a creative and diverse variety of phrases, many of them nonsensical given the context, but they sounded right coming from Amanda. Then again, anything coming from her sounded alright in that tone.

She moaned and rolled off of him, nearly sliding towards the edge of the bed as she did so. She focused on the bland, patternless ceiling for a moment before she turned to look at him.

"For the record, I let you get on top that time," Mark said after he could think clearly again. It was almost the truth. He licked his lips as he thought about her taking him by surprise and dominating him. He _was _going to let her on top eventually. Never mind that she'd taken that victory herself before he'd made up his mind to surrender.

"Hmm, yeah. Sure. And I totally let you on top all those other times," Amanda said. She leaned down to rub her toes. They ached from the way she'd twisted them in the midst of her pleasure.

"Need a foot rub after that?" Mark asked.

"If you're offering," she said. Her leg dangled in front of him, her toes wiggling. He started kneading the bottom of her foot and moved his way up to massage each individual toe.

"_Ohhhh,_" she moaned. His foot rubs were just as good as his back massages.

"That feel good?" he asked.

"_Yes,_" she said. After a few minutes, she looked at Mark and smirked.

"What?" Mark asked.

"Nothing..."Amanda said.

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"Just smiling at the easy access..." she said, and clarified what she was hinting at by stroking his bare inner thigh with her foot.

"Mmmm," he said, nodding. "Yeah, well, when it comes to you, I'm always easy access."

"You mean I have an all-access pass?" Amanda teased, her toes traveling upwards. She glided her big toe over his still sensitive length and enjoyed watching him shiver.

"Yes, you are the exclusive owner of an all-access pass to Detective Mark Hoffman," he said.

"Wow!" Amanda giggled, finding humor mostly from the expression on his face as she continued to give him a rub down with her foot. Perhaps it would have been nicer to give the nerve endings on his privates a break before trying to stimulate him again...but then she wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing him shiver or jolt each time she hit a sensitive spot. Finally fed up, Mark grabbed her mischievous foot and then the other, then forced them apart so that her legs were spread to him.

"Hey!" she said. "What are you doing..._hey_! I'm still v_ery sensitive down there!_"

The tip of his nose nudged her clit, and he slid his thumb up and down her drenched opening.

"That's the point," Mark said, looking her in the eyes as he spoke with his head between her legs. He flicked his tongue inside of her, and she shifted uncomfortably. A little more pressure and persistence, and he had her shrieking his name.

"_Mark!_" she moaned. The fact that he trying to rub her already over-stimulated body didn't change the fact that what he was doing was still arousing as hell. A part of her body wanted more from him, even as her legs twitched from the new sensations, and a part of her was turned on by the way he was restraining her. This wasn't just playful wrestling- her legs where locked in place, completely immobile, like he really was in total control.

"Eye for an eye," he murmured. "Okay, we're even. I'll stop torturing you...for now."

She smiled. This was the kind of torture she wouldn't mind being subjected to now and again.

"Yeah, well, maybe some other time I'll let you restrain me on your bed," she said.

He grabbed both of her wrists and pinned her down again. Her eyebrows rose in surprise at his quick reaction. She didn't see that coming.

"Amanda, I could restrain you on my bed any time I want to," he growled. He could sense her getting aroused as he spoke. "And you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"_Mmmm..._I'd fucking _love it_," she admitted, her smile expanding, revealing the top row of her teeth.

"Careful what you wish for... You might just wake up and find yourself handcuffed in the morning," he whispered in her ear.

"You wouldn't dare," she said, trying to sound intimidating but still smiling at the thought anyway. The idea was irresistible, to be totally under Mark's control...or better yet, for the detective to end up in his own handcuffs, naked and at her mercy. She bit her bottom lip in excitement.

"We'll just see," he said. He let go of her wrists and lay beside her, enjoying the view of Amanda in his bed.

"This was definitely one of my better ideas," Mark said.

"Getting me into your bed and fucking me?" Amanda smirked.

"Well, that too. I meant getting you out of there for awhile. Giving you a change of surroundings."

"Oh, yeah. I guess getting away from it all for awhile cleared my mind," Amanda said.

_Getting her away from _John_ helped clear her mind,_ he decided, wondering if maybe this hold John had over her could be broken by putting physical distance between them. If so, he would have to take her away more frequently.

_Or if I wanted to get more drastic..._

For a moment he had the absurd idea of kidnapping her and stashing her somewhere until she came to her senses. Perhaps drive across the country, or hell, take her across the border with her handcuffed to the hand grip bar in his car. Of course, that could raise some suspicion if he got pulled over by another officer, or as he encountered border patrol...well, maybe he'd just have to put her in the trunk...

_What the hell am I thinking? What the fuck is wrong with me? Did I seriously just consider the idea of throwing the woman I just made love to in the trunk of my car? _

His stomach did queasy flip flops. The sickening sensation spread. The only thing worse than having these disturbing thoughts was the idea that in this situation, they actually made some sense.

"Whatcha thinking about?" Amanda said.

"You've gotta get out more often. Maybe we should take a road trip one day."

"Sounds nice. Maybe one day. John needs me now."

"Yeah, but that won't be forever," he said.

Amanda understood his insinuation. John's dedication to his work would never stop, but one day, and possibly one day soon, he wouldn't be around to pursue his obsession anymore.

"Let's just not talk about that right now," she said, snuggling up against him.

"Good idea," he said. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her closer. He could feel her smile against his neck and the release of a happy sigh.

"Let's not talk at all. Let's just enjoy..._being_," she said. The already broad smile on her face spread even wider. "Right here. Right now. _Like this_."

"This _is_ pretty nice," he murmured in her hair, kissing her forehead and the stray strands of hair that fell there. She released another soft sigh, the product of her content mood.

"If you don't stop that..." Amanda threatened in a teasing voice as Mark ran his fingers along the side of her breast.

"Ready for another round?" he asked, his thumb flicking her nipple up and down, sending tingles of pleasure through her.

"Right now?" she murmured, tired but not unwilling if he wasn't.

"No rush. We have all night," he whispered in a voice as stimulating as his active fingers. Even though they did have all night, only a few more minutes passed before they were at it again, toying with each other, playing with the idea of dominance, unable to resist touching each other anywhere and everywhere upon their bare flesh. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He'd wound up on top again, but that was fine with her.

She'd just have to wait to catch him off-guard again.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Mark awakened with a severe thirst. When he looked down and saw Amanda curled against him, he grinned, despite feeling a small sense of remorse that he'd possibly have to stir her in order to get out of bed. He untangled himself from her and managed to slip away with as little disturbance as possible. He watched her for signs of waking and saw her scoot closer to the spot where he had been. A smile spread on his still tired face as he watched her sleep. Even unconscious, she possessed an alluring quality that made her difficult to walk away from.

After he retrieved a cup from the kitchen and poured himself a much needed glass of water to sooth his thirst, he stepped on a tiny piece of glass from the mess he'd failed to clean up earlier. With only slight prying, he managed to eradicate the shard from his foot. He glanced down and saw Angelina's picture now tainted with Amanda's blood. The dark red splotches smeared the bottom of the head shot, right across her throat, an awful reminder of the way Mark had found her lying on the bed so many years ago. Throwing away a picture of his sister, despite the fact that it had been damaged, seemed sacrilegious. Tossing it in the trash while standing before her shrine would have felt like desecrating a bible in front of a church. He grabbed the photo and turned it face down as if by merely not looking at it, he could wash the malicious memory from his conscience, but unfortunately, the awful reminder lingered. He knelt down and cleaned up the broken frame, then looked up at Angelina's shrine like a repentant sinner.

"I know what she thinks," he said to the bookcase, his face serious, as though it were a channel to communicate with Angelina directly. "But I still believe that I could have done more to save you. And I'll never forgive myself for failing you."

He tossed the pieces in the trash and stared at the blankness of the other side of the now ruined photograph of his beloved sister. There were copies of that picture at work, so he could throw it away and replace it in as little as 24 hours...but instead he picked it up and looked at it again, an act of pure masochism. In his mind, he had relieved what Seth had done to her so many times, he wondered how it was possible he hadn't been desensitized by the memory. Now it was slightly worse, because he couldn't help but see the parallels between the hold Seth once had on Angelina and the one John currently had on Amanda...

_But I can still do something about that...I can save her from John._

Mark stuffed the picture in a drawer he'd dedicated to miscellaneous items, making a mental note to replace the photo as soon as possible. Angelina's shrine was far from barren, but he was so used to everything being in the right spot, that a single missing photo gave him the sense that it had been defiled. He turned the lights off and rejoined Amanda, taking comfort in the feeling of her beside him, his mind far more preoccupied as he returned to bed than before he got up.

**Author's Note: Sorry for the lag in updates. I hope you guys enjoyed. I'm already working on the next chapter. Comments are appreciated and the fans that leave them are adored. :D**


	27. Losing Control

**Author's Note:**** I am sorry I have been away from this story so long. I know I have probably lost some readers due to my long absence, and I truly regret that, and I apologize for the long wait. **

**Rating: R, for sexual content**

**Chapter 26**

**Losing Control**

Mark possessed an appearance of vulnerability he couldn't fake in his waking hours if he tried. Had she not witnessed it herself, she would have never imagined he was capable of kidnapping test subjects and deceiving his colleagues and subordinates, nor would she have guessed that he could hypnotize her with a gentle allure and then fuck her senseless like he did the night before. Nor had she ever imagined that any man could do that to her, be both gentle and rough when he wanted to be, when she needed him to be. Somehow the two very different types of sex- making love and hardcore hammering- blended into one when she was with Mark. He was a master of both.

Her body swelled with heat as she examined the rest of him, nearly salivating at the mere idea of the things he could do to her, but while he remained unconscious and defenseless, she found it hard to imagine that he was capable of the things that went on the previous night.

_ I can restrain you anytime I want to...and you'd like that, wouldn't you?_

_ Oh, how looks can be deceiving, _she thought with a smile while he slept on. The facade of helplessness became a reality when she snapped the handcuffs on him.

"Sleep well?" she murmured in his ear, stirring him from slumber. Her checks protruded slightly, brushing against his ear as she smiled. The coy expression he didn't see but could sense put a grin of satisfaction on his own face.

"Best sleep of my life," he replied, forgetting the mild disturbance he had in the middle of the night involving a broken picture frame and a vast recollection of memories he'd rather keep buried than confront again. Once he slipped back into bed, he really did have an excellent sleep, and waking up to her beside him and to her voice enhanced the experience. He felt relaxed and content until he opened his eyes and saw that he was shackled to his bed, _with his own fucking handcuffs._

"What...the..._hell_?" he said in a half-asleep daze. He squinted his eyes, trying to understand what he saw was real, and then he tugged against the silver bracelets restricting him to the headboard.

"Well, last night got me thinking..." Amanda said. Her index finger rose to her bottom lip, and she tapped it like she was trying to send a message in Morse code. Mark was both fascinated and slightly infuriated at the situation he had woken up in. Waking up like this, a prisoner in his own bed, irked him. She knew no boundaries when it came to getting what she wanted. She was frustrating, but as he looked at her mischievous smile, he licked his lips and decided that although she annoyed him, she aroused and slightly amused him as well. It was a fair trade.

"Oh?" Mark said. He swallowed, trying to maintain calamity. Amanda complicated that task by mounting him and massaging his inner thighs. Her eyes traveled along a path her hands soon followed as she reached her desired destination. Then her attention shifted to his face as she rubbed the base of him. His mouth twitched as his eyes fluttered closed. His expression vacillated between surprise and pleasure. Every time she touched him, she lit his nerve endings on fire with the sensual skin-on-skin contact.

She licked her hand and cupped her palm, dripping with warm saliva, over the head of him and stroked up and down.

"_Oh_," he said again in a different tone conveying a very different meaning. As he tossed his head back against a nearby pillow, his entire pelvic region elevated. She gazed down at him with an amused smile. There mere view of him helpless, yet so entirely willing, was in itself worth the time and energy she'd put into rummaging around through his things in search of his handcuffs.

"Well, it got me thinking that I don't mind losing control to you, Mark. It's fun, letting you take control sometimes. But it's only fair if we take turns, and I had a feeling you weren't going to play fair, so I-"

"I always play fair," he protested. A small groan of pleasure and a slight discomfort followed as she squeezed him.

"Don't interrupt me while I'm talking!" The severity of her voice broke as she giggled, watching him moan as she continued.

"Mmm...Alright," he said, licking his lips as he watched her work him into a fully hard state. She stopped when he began thrusting into her hand, and slowly licked the sides of his shaft, teasing him.

"You're fucking determined to have me at your mercy, aren't you?" he said. "Amanda, don't you realize that I already am? Even without these cuffs? I always have been...Always."

Her heart pounded in her chest for another reason now. She thought she might faint from the sensation of affection that she was feeling for him as he looked up at her with pleading eyes.

"Nice try," she said. "I'm not falling for it. You're not getting out until I'm ready to let you go."

"Worth a shot," he said, shrugging casually, but his face reverted back to sincerity far too quickly. His eyes burned into hers, and despite his casual dismissal, she knew every word he said was true.

_ I always have been...Always._

"So what's the safe word?" Mark said.

"What?" Amanda asked as if she'd never heard the phrase.

"Well, if we're going to do _this_," he said, smirking and tugging at the cuffs again. "Aren't we supposed to have a safe word?"

"Psh, safe words are for pussies. Besides, I don't think I'm going to hear any protests from you."

"True," he sighed as she resumed the actions that had originally gotten him into such a hard state. She took him into her mouth as far as it would go without choking her and giggled as he shuddered under her touch. His defenselessness and absolute exposure empowered her, and she finally felt some control, in at least this aspect of her life. It was a feeling she had not felt in so long. She felt feminine and desired as Mark made a wide variety of lustful expressions, first watching her with interest, then being so overwhelmed by the pleasure that he couldn't keep his eyes open, no matter how badly he wanted to watch her getting him off.

"Amanda," he chanted over and over again. Her name sounded so good coming from his lips. She groaned, getting more aroused herself. She removed him from her mouth and laughed as he moaned in protest.

"Oh God, really?" he said. He yanked on his cuffs. It slightly disgusted him knowing how many criminals these had been on (and how they had never been sterilized), but somehow it still aroused him. Perhaps it was just relinquishing control to Amanda that was what made the fetish so appealing.

"I was so close," he complained.

"I know." She softly ran her fingers against his inner thighs and everything in between as though she were fingerpainting.

"What's the magic word?" she said.

"I thought we agreed on no safe words?"

"No idiot, the magic word. The one involving manners."

He couldn't think. Her mental games were too challenging when he was this turned on. A few moments later the answer came to him.

"Please?"

"There we go! Now say it like you mean it, and not like it's a question." She wrapped her hand over his erection.

"Please," he looked her dead in the eyes, swallowing hard.

"Please what?"

"Oh God, you know what!"

"Yes, but that's not the point. I want to hear you say it." She caressed the tip of him to give him some encouragement.

"Please, get me off, Amanda. Please do something, anything. Finish blowing me or fuck me, just do it now!"

"Hmmm…," she said. The second option seemed much more desirable now that she was so aroused herself. "Okay."

She grabbed one of the remaining condoms on top of Mark's dresser and put it on him. She threw her leg over him, and as she directed him inside of her, their voices merged in a single loud moan. She rode him fast and hard. Both of them were close to the edge already. Although they tried to prolong it, they both came mere minutes later, screaming and slamming against each other. She collapsed onto his chest and listened as his heartbeat hammered in his chest.

She finally removed herself from him and took the cuffs off. She smiled innocently. He sat up and glared at her.

"If you ever do that again…"

"You'll just have an incredible orgasm and beg for me again? Admit it, Detective, this is one part of your life where you don't mind losing control."

He shook his head. "You're unbelievable."

"In bed? Yeah, I know. And even if I didn't, between last night and this morning, I'm pretty sure I could have figured it out myself."

He grabbed her and pulled her close to him. She giggled from the surprise of her sudden capture and from the euphoria coursing through her. Feeling her beside him never failed to either drive him mad with desire or completely calm him. It amazed him that there was never any in between when it came to the effect she had on him.

"I'll agree to that," he whispered in her ear. She shivered as his hot breath invaded her tender nerve endings and her mind. He smiled as he spoke again.

"But next time it's my turn."

* * *

After round two they had a simple but satisfying breakfast of eggs and bacon, which was a much desired upgrade from Amanda's usual diet that consisted of packaged food labeled _instant_ for every meal from breakfast till dinner. Mark cooked while Amanda watched television. She noticed that the picture frame she broke the night before was gone and realized that at some point Mark got up in the middle of the night and took care of it. Had she even expressed regret for breaking the frame? It was an accident, but still, common courtesy required at least a face saving apology, but she could not muster the courage to make one. She concluded that it was probably better not to mention it anyways. He always got that distant look in his eyes when he spoke of his sister, and she didn't usually care that he did, but right now Mark's mind was on her and her alone, and she liked it that way.

She breezed through the channels until she saw a snobbish blonde reporter on the news talking about John.

"Despite knowing the identity of the Jigsaw killer, the police are still not one step closer to apprehending John Kramer, nor is there any new information on the disappearance of Detective Eric Matthews. His son, Daniel, is here on behalf of his father to plead for John Kramer to release him."

Daniel, looking physically well but emotionally agitated, leaned over the microphone and opened his mouth. He hesitated. His eyes darted from the camera to the reporter at his side, then back to the camera. Amanda watched the screen with interest now, feeling a pang of remorse for the boy.

"I know you think you're helping people, but you've also hurt a lot of people too. All I want is my dad back. You don't have to turn yourself in or anything, but just let my dad go. Let me see my dad again, please. And Dad, if you can hear this, I love you and I'm sorry-"

The camera turned back to the reporter who cut Daniel off mid-sentence. "Words of sorrow from one of the few Jigsaw victims to make it out of the deadly Jigsaw games alive!" Her eyes grew wide as the cameraman zoomed in closer to her.

"Will this poor boy ever be reunited with his father, or will Eric Matthews forever be one of the many Jigsaw victims who disappear and are never heard from again?"

Daniel closed his eyes and shuddered. Amanda's heart ached. She felt some remorse over Eric's fate now, not because she had a smidgen of sympathy for the jerk who severely messed up her life, but because of the pain this was causing Daniel. The ridiculous reporter wasn't helping the situation any either. Her apathetic indifference to talking about Eric's potentially bleak fate right in front of his son was not missed on Amanda.

"Join us at ten tonight for more details on this fascinating, although horrific case. Signing off for now, this is Pamela Jenkins on Local 2 News." She flipped her hair and widened her eyes. For all the effort she put into performing for the camera, she would have made a better actress than a reporter.

"What a cunt," Amanda said. She flipped the TV off and walked up to Mark to put her arms around his naked waist while he flipped eggs. She had to get Daniel off her mind, and her handsome lover-turned-personal-chef was as good of a distraction as any.

"Smells good," she said.

He smirked. "That's because it's real food, something you don't know much about."

She smacked him playfully with the sleeve of his own shirt that she was wearing because her own garments were still wet from being soaked with water the night before.

"The reporter that was just on the T.V. is a bitch," she said. He nodded.

"Yeah, she's come by the department a few times sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. She's obnoxious, but dealing with people like her is part of the job."

Amanda nodded sympathetically, stealing a piece of bacon from one of the plates.

"Hey, that's my plate, thief!"

"How do you know which one is your plate? They're exactly the same!"

"No they're not, because this one has more food."

"Not anymore," she said, and took another piece. He spanked her. She giggled and reciprocated the gesture. They continued their banter all morning, relieved and more comfortable than ever before in each other's presence due to the absence of sexual frustration. There was only sexual anticipation now, and that was something they both thoroughly enjoyed.

After breakfast, Mark looked at his watch, wondering how much longer he could keep Amanda away from John until he was forced to return her. This morning had been too good to last forever, and he dreaded its conclusion.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Ten," he said. It was actually much closer to eleven than ten.

"We should really head back," she said. "John might be worried."

Mark snorted. "About you maybe."

"He cares for you too, I think. In his own way." She tried to sound believable, but there was no conviction in her words.

"Amanda, he hardly cares for you, and you're his protégé."

"Well, anyway, we need to head back."

Mark grunted. He left their dishes and went in his room to get dressed. Amanda put the plates in the dishwasher as if she were more than just a guest there, and looked again at Mark's shrine. A light layer of dust had accumulated on the shelves, with a clean spot as a reminder of the frame she had broken yesterday. She felt a tinge of guilt at the sight of the white spot. Compared to the thick layer of dust on his dresser where she had searched for his handcuffs and the other hints of poor housekeeping, such as the streaks on his windows and grime between the tiles in his bathroom, he clearly paid more attention to the shrine than the rest of his house. While studying the shrine, this abnormal entity that stuck out among the normality of Mark's otherwise unremarkable residence, she noticed that the necklace she saw earlier was a locket. Careful not to disturb or break anything else, she opened it up and peaked inside. A picture of a family of four was inside of it on one side. An engraving was on the other side.

_Family is Forever_

"Not always," she whispered, thinking of both her and Mark's families. She put the locket back, careful to position it exactly where it was.

She sat back down and looked around the humble apartment. It wasn't much, but she would miss seeing this part of Mark, this semblance of an ordinary life among their otherwise very tumultuous lives.

"Ready?" he asked when he returned. She nodded.

"Almost. I need my pants," she said.

"Truthfully, I prefer you this way," he smirked. He slid his arms around her and rested his hands on her bottom as if to demonstrate exactly why her current half-naked state was his preference. He gently squeezed the soft flesh and pressed her against him.

"Yeah, but John might not. Or your neighbors. It's hard to keep a low-profile walking around in just a shirt." She rested her hands on his chest.

"True," he said. After a moment of staring at each other, a habit that was becoming more and more common between them this morning, he untangled himself from her and went to the bathroom to retrieve them.

"They're still wet," he said.

She shrugged and put them on. They fought her stubbornly as she struggled to squeeze into them. She used the couch for support, but still managed to tumble over a few times. Mark smiled, biting his lips trying not to laugh.

"Okay I'm ready!" she said once she finally managed to button her jeans. He opened the door, and she said a silent good-bye to his apartment. They made it to his car before she blushed as she remembered she left her panties on his bathroom floor.

_Oops!_

* * *

_12 Missed Calls_

All of them were from Kerry. She left half a dozen messages. Several of them were about Daniel and the news broadcast that had occurred that morning. In one of the messages she babbled so long and frantically that he was not sure if she even remembered she was leaving a message by the end of it. Mark delivered Amanda back to the building he thought of as a prison that she tried to think of as home, much to his chagrin.

"I don't want to leave, but I really have to," he said. "Don't take it the wrong way. Last night, and this morning was…"

"I know. I'm amazing…and you were pretty good in the sack too."

He shook his head, smiling in amusement.

"I didn't just mean that part of our little adventure, but alright."

She bit her bottom lip and nodded her head, acknowledging that something much more had occurred. Mark's eyes darted around frantically. If he wanted this to continue, secrecy was necessary, as much as he would love to shove it in the old man's face that he had finally gotten to Amanda and obtained a part of her heart the old man could never touch. After assuring himself that they were alone, he kissed her quickly but intensely, not stopping until they were both slightly out of breath.

"Is that the kind of kiss I can expect every time we have to part for a couple hours?" she asked.

"Absolutely."

"Then you should start leaving more often," she joked. He winked at her and left. Amanda began looking for John in all the usual places, hoping that he had not chosen last night to start paying attention to her again. Something felt off. Usually John was hard to get ahold of, but not _this_ hard to find. She had assumed that John was ignoring her, or at least was so concerned with his work that she had taken a backseat priority for the time being, but what if it was something else entirely? She never noticed if he worked the entire time he was gone, since she tried to keep busy by preoccupying her mind with other things. She immediately began to feel worried, and made it her mission to find John immediately.

"John," she shouted. Her eyes investigated every crevice of the building. Where could he be? It was almost noon. He should not be sleeping at this late hour, and he never left the building anymore now that it was common knowledge that he was Jigsaw.

She eventually found him in his bed. Her chest fell as she let out a much needed sigh, but her relief was short lived. John never rested during the day. He was adamant about working all day, from designing traps to constructing them and testing them, and then retesting them until he was satisfied with the perfection of the mechanics.

This meant he was getting worse, and here she had assumed his absence had something to do with her. She felt stupid. If John was getting sicker, then last night was the worst possible time to leave. She tried to comfort herself with the thought that she was here now, and would not leave his side again so long as he needed her.

"John," she whispered. She kneeled down so that she was level with him."Is there anything I can do for you?"

He nodded.

"Water. Something to eat. I don't feel up to fixing it myself."

She rushed out of the room, wondering how long he had went without eating, and feeling a sick nausea form in her stomach as she thought about the meal that she and Mark had shared that morning.

_It's not my fault. Aren't I entitled to a life too? Some shred of happiness among all this death…_

She focused on making John the best possible meal she could with her limited culinary skills. Instant soup, crackers, toast, water, and apple slices, peeled and cut up into eighths herself. She took the food into his room and helped him sit upright. While getting him up, he turned towards the trash can as nausea threatened to propel whatever remnants of food remaining within him from his stomach. His body continued going through the motions of vomiting, but nothing came up because there was nothing left inside of him to relinquish to the waste bin.

She winced. It was painful to watch him, once so strong and intimidating, crumble before her eyes like a piece of paper being crushed into a ball before disposal.

"Is there anything else I can do?" she whispered. He nodded. He pointed to his desk.

"The drawing on that table. Look at it. Study it. It is your next project."

She walked over to the table and sat down. She tried her best to focus on it, but all she could do was peer over at John out of the corner of her eyes to make sure he was eating. After he finished, she was capable of not just looking at the lines on the paper but actually seeing and understanding them.

A ribcage hung suspended in the air. A jar of acid held the key, an acid so potent it could dissolve the metal in under a minute, or so the sidenote John had scribbled in the margin said.

"So who is it for? I need the information to give to Mark."

John shook his head.

"I said it's _your _project."

She shook her head, confused.

"That means you decide. It is entirely your project."

Amanda's hand rose to her throat. This meant John was getting closer to the end if he was already preparing her to do independent projects. He put his tray on the table beside him and laid back down.

"Now leave me so I can rest."

She nodded and walked out the door, but lingered in the hallway. She felt a sharp penetrating pain in her chest. The narrow hallway seemed to be closing in on her. She didn't know whether to stay so she could be close to John, or leave so she could get him out of her head for a moment. She ended up staying there for hours, curled in a ball, quietly sobbing, waiting for the pain to subside. She curled her hands into fists and squeezed so hard that she drew blood. She stared at the four crimson crescents that had formed in her flesh, and for a moment she found calamity again.


End file.
